Open letter to myself

Or: how I’m learning to deal with anxiety and its family of friends

Dear me,

This is a bad time. I know it is. I know that your levels of stress fluctuate and dance upon your back like the malicious little creatures that they always have been. I know that you watch your shadow and see it twist into claws and talons and horns. I know you look into your lover’s eyes and all you see is disappointment. I know that you lie awake at night, facing the blinds and watching the milky blue light filter into your chaotic room and think about all the things you should have done earlier, could have done better. I know how, in that darkness, you convince yourself that you are worthless.

Smoke and mirrors, my love. Smoke and mirrors.

You walked away from your therapist feeling as though you had reached the ground again, that you had tasted what the earth felt like and knew where to go from there. You were wrong, but you also are so much better than you used to be. You exist. And you defend that existence with all your might. That is far more than you ever hoped to achieve. You are aware that the voices in your head are disjointed, that they are bats whirling around in your caverns and not at all the sound of the architecture of your mind crashing into the sea. You are aware that your self-hatred is unfound, and based purely on the fact that you are your worst enemy.

Because you are not satisfied with average, you are not even satisfied with good. Where others celebrate in achieving beyond expectations, you merely escape self-hatred. Unless you are better than the best that you can be, you believe you have failed. And that is destructive. You have always believed you are searching approval from everyone around you when you were only ever seeking approval from yourself. You should be celebrating the fact that you are alive at all, that you get out of bed in the morning, that you have sat two years of university, that you are still capable of love and hope and wonder. So many walked the road you did, and all they became were twisted monsters only capable of hurting those they touched. You are wonderful in so many ways, for your intelligence, for your determination, your persistence, your strength both physical and mental, for your compassion, for your bravery and your curiosity. May it never dull. May you shine on, scars and all.

But you know that now, because I told you so.

And I’m so proud of you for daring to feel, to breathe and know that you are an entity all by yourself. I’m so proud that you’ve learned how to care, how to hurt, how to grow angry. I know it hurts, but isn’t that why babies cry when they first pop out of the womb? Because life is so bewildering and awful and just too much — but it’s worth it.

I know it’s tempting to reach out for some form of control in a world where control is slipping from your grasp. It might be what your mind is telling you, but in all honesty, my love, it isn’t what you want. When you were absent from this world, you hurt yourself in so many terrible ways and you let yourself be hurt in so many terrible ways, by those who promised to love you but only managed to break you. I know that allowing yourself to lose control means losing control on what your body feels like and what it looks like. I know it feels like failure — but what it really is, my darling, is victory.

You faced your disease and you conquered it with the softening over your bones and the way you are conscious of the decisions you make, but it never controls you or the way you breathe. Because you are now able to prioritise. Because you will never ruin a birthday again because you were to scared to eat seafood, or because you transferred your hurt and anger into hunger and relished it. And now you are awake.

God, for the first time, we are awake and it is magnificent.

Dear me, we’ll get through this. Promise.

Love,

Your moment of clarity