What Youโ€™re Capable Of | A Letter to 17-Year-Old Me

Dear Elm,
I know what you’re thinking. “Oh God, if she’s writing a letter to me, something really must have happened – what happened??? What’d I do? Ahh shit, what am I like in a year – am I worse? AM I?” and words to that paranoid effect. I know us far better than you would give me credit for and no, that doesn’t make sense but we think in pretty much the same way so just go with it. The difference is that I know far more than you, you moronic child – and again no, that’s not self-hating, it’s just the truth.

Happy Valentine’s Day! I’m writing this today because for some reason, we take stock in these days – birthdays, when you started this blog and today because it’s associated with love. I never knew I was capable of being sentimental.

Speaking of, you have no idea what’s going to happen over the next year and just how confusing things will get. On that note, I want to tell you a few little things because you don’t know what you’re able to do when you feel panicky. So, let’s jump into a year of being an idiot – and just for the record, you stop talking about love on your blog and it’s time I started again.

In the next few days and weeks, you’re going to do something really stupid. Actually – the thing itself isn’t stupid, it’s just how you respond to it. You’re going to emotionally hurt someone close to you; you’re going to feel violently guilty but not take steps to do anything about that and in the future, that affects your relationships with people and they don’t trust you as much. You probably would know what I was talking about but it’s not a case of just “being honest” with this. You’re terrified, or you will be soon, and you don’t know how to cope with that. In short, you’re capable of running away, lying and refusing to deal with the consequences.

Let’s talk about lying for a minute. You’ve never properly, truly lied before but now is when you start: you lie about your feelings; you lie about how much that affects you; you act utterly blank and emotionless when that couldn’t be further from the truth. Looking back, I feel quite sorry for you because you lived – and still live – in a world of terror that makes you firmly believe that you deserve nothing and by doing that, you don’t let yourself live in the moment, have anything good – or hope. You lie for fear of people hating you and when you tell the truth, it either comes with negative consequences or causes irreversible panic and I wish you’d known that people care about you so much and just want to know if you’re okay. Though that doesn’t excuse anything you do, how you upset people, I – and the people involved – understand you a lot more now. Don’t throw away things just because of fear, okay?

Here’s the thing. You wouldn’t believe me when I say this but you block someone for no good reason and attempt to justify that to yourself and others by pushing the anger you feel – for the first time – onto someone else rather than yourself. You stop doing that totally when you unblock them and talk about it – and there’s another thing. Communication is amazing and you will learn to treasure the ones who are as open as they can be with you. In August, you’ll have many difficult conversations but you are capable of learning. I’m proud of you for that. Those conversations need to happen and you finally learn that the most beautiful people are the ones who don’t try to fix you – they just try to be there.

Last October, you were hurt so badly by circumstances beyond your control and this October, I’m sorry to say it happens again and you’re left wrecked from it. However, you’re able to pick yourself up a little: you rely on friends, have screaming breakdowns and move on- and can I just say, stop lying to yourself about that shit! I’d love to tell you it resolves itself, that you feel utterly fine about things in a year’s time but you don’t and that’s something you have to contend with – guilt, confusion and the persistent feeling that you’ll never be good enough. That’s bullshit and we know it but some people have a habit of making you question your own existence.

It’s not all negative. You are capable of beautiful things but I want you to discover them on your own. Trust me, if you could read this, you’d never believe me. Sometimes I don’t believe me either.

For instance, if I told you what you’ve been repressing for ages and how much you’ve been lying to yourself about someone, you’d call me a twat and break your computer. If I told you that you travel three hours on your own and meet some amazing people, that you become way more independent and that you realise feelings were okay to have, you’d glare at me in the weird way we do and ask if all of those internal theories of alternate universes were, in fact, true. They might be but I’m in your universe so deal with it.

You are capable of so many things. Having feelings again – but shhh, don’t tell anyone – and you discover so much about how your mind works. You finally go to counselling and process some emotions. You still lie but you’ve stopped lying to yourself so much and you’ve stopped twisting your own perception of reality.

I hope I can look back on this in a year’s time and that I could say I was brave. One thing I’ve learned from you is that running away and ignoring our feelings never works. They don’t just go away. Maybe tonight, I’ll make my 17-year-old self proud and tell people how I feel. Or maybe, said self wouldn’t be proud – just shocked and slightly apprehensive at how grim, wise and less self-hating I sound.

I’m still making progress. I’m not like you any more but in a way, I am – we love the same but express it differently. Just remember one thing – love isn’t scary. Neither is hope.

From Elm ๐Ÿ™‚

What I Can’t Say | A Letter

Last night, I had a dream that you actually cared about me.

When I woke up, feeling ill and shaking with something a little like fear, I cried because I realised the dream was just that – a dream. Over the next hour, it hit me that not only did you not care but there was nothing I could do to make you care. You can lead a horse to water but you can’t make it give a shit about the water, after all.

I could send you a thousand messages, do everything possible to get your attention but that’s what they call “attention-seeking”. I could tell you if I felt miserable in the hours when I wasn’t sleeping; I could let you know just how sad I’m feeling; I could tell you that when I spoke to you, it calmed something within me but no matter that it’s true, even if you believed me, you still wouldn’t care. There wouldn’t be much use in exhausting all avenues of communication if it’ll just go unanswered. It wouldn’t be of much use if it’d just make you hate me.

Now, I don’t think you hate me, just that you don’t care. We’ve gone through too much for you to hate me; you’ve said it countless times. However, the ceaseless paranoia I feel in the cavity of my stomach makes me believe that you just don’t care: that you’re tired of caring. It’s like all my attempts to talk to you, instead of bringing you closer, have pushed you away. Maybe it’s my fault, for being odd and scarily attached to people, but sometimes, it just happens.

You may think that I write this in anger that you wouldn’t care but the truth is, I’ve come to accept it. Yes, it breaks me a fair bit that the beautiful friendship I suppose we still had will be marred by me, where I constantly seek reassurance, but it’s part of things which I have to come to terms with. I’ll change that part of me but for now, I know that when I next speak to you, I’ll be filled with the terror that I’ll say something that’ll make things worse. That doesn’t mean I’m angry or resentful; it just means that I’m both scared of myself and of having direct proof that I’m losing you.

I’m a jumble of thoughts. I want you to care but I don’t want to show you that because I can turn into a pathetic mess. I don’t want to be misconstrued as attention-seeking when a small part of me wants a crying sort of assurance. In short, you make me become a juxtaposition, like I want to shove you away in case I screw things up but I also want to still have you here because no matter that you don’t care, I still care. Will that tear me apart? Perhaps but I must stop lying to myself and I have to stop pretending that I don’t have a heart.

You’ll never read this and that’s why I can say all these things, all of the confused strands of paranoia and loneliness spilling out onto a screen. Maybe I’m wrong and maybe you do care but I don’t want to waste energy wishing. In time, you’ll prove to me that you care or that you don’t and then I’ll know. I’ll just have to wait and try not to lock myself into a loop of wild hope and crushing disappointment.

People stay in your life and people leave; people are there for a short time and a long time and often, you can’t predict what it’ll be. I couldn’t say what you’ll be to me in 5 years because you may have cut off all communication with me by then. It’s okay to do that but what I can’t deal with is this uncertainty: I know that you don’t care as much now but to what extent is still not known to me. Time heals all wounds, they say, but how much time are we willing to give each other?

If you do end up reading this, I might get a message telling me I don’t know you at all, that this just shows that I don’t understand you. To that, I’d say “I’m sorry but in order for me to understand you, you have to let me.” Or I may just leave it. You may say, “Why would you think I don’t care – I have a lot going on so I’m sorry for that.” Or you may never send me a message at all.

I’m not sad now; I’m not angry. I’m neither resigned nor hopeful. I’m just here and so are you and that’s, really, what matters. Beneath all the confusion and torn up thoughts, silent wonderings and spoken happiness, we’re still here.

I’m glad of that. Maybe, at some point, I’ll get my answer but if not? I’m still here.

From Elm ๐Ÿ™‚

Letter to a Liar

Dear you,
I have a nagging, horrible feeling that you lied to me, somewhere along the way. Maybe it’s my constant paranoia, but maybe it’s not.

It would be absolutely terrible if you had lied about that. What it was, when it happened, how it affected our relationship moving forward from me finding about that. The latter, if touched by any lie you told, would just make things… Wrong. I’d have to re-evaluate my feelings towards you, towards our previous (and dare I say, current) friendship, so here’s to hoping I never find out for sure whether you did or not.

I’m being elusive again, like I was in my last letter. It just means that yet again, I won’t reveal who this “you” is. The exact thing you might have lied about won’t be said either, because that’s too invasive, and barely anyone knew when you told me – though maybe a thousand different people know exactly what occurred that day, from your perspective.

It breaks my heart to know that I have so little faith in you now that I’d even consider that you lied – when we were close, or much closer than we are now, the thought of you lying about something so important to you and I was inconceivable. I scoffed at that idea, because I was absolutely certain you would always be honest: you’d tell me when I was awful; you’d let me know if something happened; you’d be the person I could rely on. For a time, you were that, like my own little light in the confusion that was my head, but you aren’t that now.

The reality is that I don’t trust you. I’m not sure when I stopped, and I could easily dive back into the well of trust that you and I once had, but that would hurt. When you’re not sure if the foundation of your friendship or feelings were based off lies, it’s difficult not to fall into a different kind of well entirely – one of endless worry. Luckily, I’ve not despaired so much as to be like that, yet, and I never want to get that low.

Some people say that I never should have trusted you in the first place, but I disagree. You were something special to me, that I’ve moved on from but still hurts in a little corner of my mind, and I can’t forget that. You brought me happiness and laughter, security and friendship before any pain. What you did wasn’t your fault, I know – and not mine, though I convince myself it is. Somehow.

I can’t talk about untruths, because I lied to you too. You may not know it – you may suspect – but I did, after it all. Never did I lie during our friendship, or whatever you want to call it. It was only after: after my morals twisted a little and I became even more suspicious of everything, that I told you things that weren’t the truth. Like a lot of liars, I did it to stop you hurting, to shield you and me from something – your anger, my hurt, my fucked up sense of what was right? I don’t know.

I wonder – did you do what I did? Perhaps I’ve overthought this, but let’s go with the idea that you lied: did you do it to save yourself, or to help me? I wish I’d known, and you’d known, that lying only brings complex tragedy. Wishing for changes in the past gets you nowhere: ultimately, we didn’t know and so the web of lies that I now can’t reveal to certain people for fear of fucking things up even more than I have has entangled me.

In a parody of thought, I’ll be honest with you. I miss you, but I miss the version of happiness we had. One that wasn’t tempered by cynicism and careful dancing over subjects that would reveal that I’d been dishonest, or you, or either of us; I don’t know what’s reality any more when it comes to what we had. That’s the thing: I could have avoided lying, and you could have too, if we weren’t so scared of the other’s reaction. Fuck knows if, and when, you lied but I know that I was so petrified and still am that if you find out the truth of what I did after things went to shit, you’d hate me and never speak to me again.

I’m done with lies, and secrets, and stupid amounts of care to get my words right in case I step over the line. If I don’t trust you, and I’m worried you lied, maybe it’s better if I remove myself from this situation. It hurts, but you don’t deserve to think about someone who got so overwhelmed and miserable by her situation that she spoke to the one person who hurt you, who did the same thing to you that they did to me.

Perhaps people are destined to lie if they have to, but that doesn’t mean it’ll continue. I’ll never find out if you told me the truth that day, but I don’t really want to know. I want to love who I love without being terrified that they’d lie to me without thinking, and then get so caught up in lies that we run away. I think that’s what we both did, and that’s okay, because moving forward, I can remember to always, always be honest: it’s what you taught me, then and now, when your honesty made me happy, when it didn’t and when your lack of it made me think.

I won’t be bitter over something that might not have happened the way I thought. Life’s too short for that.

From me ๐Ÿ™‚

Letters to a Memory

Dear you,
Perhaps writing these will give me a better form of closure than what I had, though I’m beginning to think that how it ended wasn’t closure at all. This most certainly won’t be the last “letter” I write to you, because my emotions can’t be summarised in one sitting. It would take far longer than that, and it makes it easier that I’m writing it here because there’s no fear attached.

Can I really call it a letter, when you’ll never read it? Even if you do, you’d never realise it was you, or you’d think it was you when it wasn’t. I wouldn’t make it easy for you, simply because I don’t want you to know. I want to speak as freely as I’ll let myself.

I still don’t blame you, despite being told I have every right to, because you broke my heart. You taught me what friendship was like, what it was like to make awful and stupid mistakes, but then what it was to forgive. Then, that all shattered and I was left – but there’s something important that’s missing there. The shattering, the ending, isn’t what should define how you thought of something. The journey to that ending, the things you experience along the way that make you grow as a person, should.

The simple reason I can’t blame you is that I know that it wasn’t your fault. If I were a different person, I would have cut off contact the minute you said those awful words – but I wasn’t. I’m me, and you know that I forgave you a long time ago, because there wasn’t anything to forgive: I fucked up, and you returned that sentiment in kind. I can’t help but think it’s a sort of karma, despite the fact I’m finally admitting I didn’t deserve it. That I wasn’t somehow to blame.

You’d find me pathetic if you saw me now, seeming as I still cry quite a fair bit – not just over you, mind; there are plenty of things – not only from years ago – that make me cry. Strangely, though, whether you find me pathetic or not is something I don’t care much about any more; I hope I’m not lying to myself when I say that, because I’ve done that a lot recently. However, my tears are my own and not yours to shed, and I’ve suppressed them around other people so the only outlet I have is this, and my own thoughts now. How times have changed.

One of the main things that scares me is something ending. The missed opportunities, the things that will never happen, and I can’t breathe from the pain of it sometimes. I realise how small I was in comparison to everything, and it makes me question whether I was worth it to anyone that came before or after you. I miss it, you, everything; it’s comforting that you’d never think to ask because I don’t think that either you or I would want to hear the truth coming out of my mouth.

I don’t think that you ever loved me; I was just deluding myself into thinking I had a chance with that level of emotion. That started a whole spiral of self-worthlessness, something I’m still surrounded by; it can’t go away with the flick of a switch. I think that people underestimate just how little I think of myself now, and no: it isn’t just because of you. In fact, it existed so long before you came along that I wonder if it all started when I realised I couldn’t see like the rest of my classmates could, or if it just grew and grew until it turned into the leech it is today.

You never took anything away from me, and I hope you know that. You turned things into other things, security into paranoia – but no, that wasn’t you; it was my mind that did that. I absolutely can’t blame you for that, because that was far outside your control. You didn’t twist my ideas of who you were, not really – I always knew who you were, and who you are is not and never has been a bad person.

I’m not crying whilst I write this. I’m in control of my emotions, unlike yesterday and the day before, and so many days before that. Finally getting some of this out has helped a little, I suppose.

I’m very removed from the person I was when we were close, because as much as you said that you would always be there, you aren’t. You aren’t here now, and you haven’t been for so long; it’s understandable because I’m pretty sure I irritated you, annoyed you and exasperated you. I certainly did myself. But you broke a promise – one I knew, in the back of my mind, couldn’t be kept – and I find it so difficult to get past that, from an unwavering set of morals I used to have.

I can’t forget what was once so precious to me. If I do, I’ll forget why I can call myself a good person in the first place: because I understand why people did things, and I accept it.

The person who you used to know is still me. There are a few more layers now, a few more walls, but I still cry for help and I still need somebody to hold me together. That somebody isn’t you any more, and will never be again because I know you would never want that. It’s just that I don’t know where I stand with anybody; I’m scared and worried, so that’s why I’m writing this because I want to get some of my hurt out.

I don’t know where you are now, who you are, or if you’re happy. I hope that you are; you deserve to be. I’ve never said that I hated you, not once – though I suppose I hated how you treated everything for a short while, but that feeling’s been reasoned out of me by my own mind. I’ve not felt bitter, even though I joke that I do; life is just life, you are just you and I’ll be the me I want to be at some point.

Hope’s what I cling onto. It’s not like I’m drowning, or like I’m lost; it’s more that I’m trying to find my footing when the rug’s been dragged out from under me. I know you understand that, and I can just imagine you sighing in that way you did before, or laughing as if you were surprised by it. I always found that beautiful.

If, for some reason, you’re reading this, I wonder if you’ll figure out it’s you. To anyone, it might seem obvious, but read between the lines. This “letter” could refer to a myriad of people, and one thing that I can keep to myself is the fact that the only person who truly knows who this is about is me.

Hold onto your morals, okay? Whatever you’re doing, if you’re laughing now or crying, just remember a little segment of the past for a second. You know which one I mean. It’s doubtful that I’ll see you again, or when I do, it won’t be with much significance attached; it might just be a passing word or a nostalgic “Hey, remember the old days?” Do you?

Yes, I remember; sometimes I wish you could forget it. Never let the memory of a girl you used to call a close friend tarnish any memories you might make in the future. Let me just be something old, something safe. I’m content with that.

You were the possibility in the midst of a rainstorm, something that grew with every cloud and kept my tears from becoming an ocean. Now, you’re the echo of that, but you’ll still remain in the back of my thoughts. A reminder: all things come to an end, but you can bloody well find true happiness whilst those things are on their way.

From me ๐Ÿ™‚

Dear Ash

Dear Ash,

You won’t remember, but when we were 14, I wrote on my stupid old blog about my ‘abandonment issues’ – which weren’t serious, though you helped me to realise that they mattered. Even if I’m very glad that you called me out on my bullshit, which caused me to write that excuse for a post, part of me wishes I’d never done it.

You see, if I’d have been honest with you from the start, none of this would have happened. I wouldn’t have tried so desperately to be friends, constantly replying to messages and getting paranoid even before the days where you called me a close friend, letting you trust me, trusting you in return: because if little 14-year-old me had held back, I would never have fallen in love with you. Is that a good thing? I don’t think so.

Not that I realised I was necessarily lying. In the early days, it was just a way to let myself realise that people didn’t all think I was stupid, that you – someone who was kind, out of my social circle – respected me. And so it continued, like the time I somehow got your number by lying. Do you have any idea how awful I felt about myself? No. You don’t.

2 years on, and I’ve figured out that I don’t care any more. You no longer have the power to make my mind spin in a circle with panic, to cause me to question what kind of person I am. It’s not you that does that any more; rather, it’s everything that happened after you. You were the root cause, the person who made me change and see that I was acting terribly.

I’ll be honest with you, despite the fact that you’ll never read this. It’s time to truly admit to myself that this shit wasn’t my fault, but that I don’t blame you either. So, here we go; I’ll delve into a year of hurt and love and all that shit.

I wanted to be to you what you were to me. I think it was as simple as that. I craved the friendship, the happiness I felt when you trusted me: that simple trust, from someone I had a deep-rooted respect for, was so foreign. Before I start howling at myself, I’ll explain what you did.

Yes, you had things going on at the time, with your girlfriend, your mental health, and people bullying you. But it didn’t give you the right to completely blank my existence, for a month, and then come back and tell me that I’ve been such a good friend to you. I KNEW I had. “No!” my mind screams, “He needed space, and you can’t blame him; you did all he asked and that was to be there for him.” Yeah, that’s true; I never doubted that you felt terrible for your actions because I know you did. It ate at you, ripping away at who you were.

That argument. God, it was stupid; if we’d both talked it out, it could have been resolved. I still blame myself in the corner of my mind, because I never gave you privacy. Here we go with the honesty thing again: I told my friends what we talked about because I fancied the shit out of you. I was soaring on the feeling of love, happiness, and excitement at something new.

The point is, I never thought straight. I’m making excuses, I know, and it’s pointless anyway because it’s all in the past. Every conversation we had, I stored in my head, and if that’s not possessive and weird I don’t know WHAT is.

Remember when Holly made me upset when she talked about suicide and we called from your friends to come and talk to me, help me? I still feel cold when I think how… Awkward that was. I needed you at the time, yet you said for me to not do that again because you weren’t good with sudden real life things. I understood that, still do, but it hurt like the chill of regret.

So many things hurt, actually; it’s all coming back now. Your lovely words, when you said I’d always been there for you when you apologised after our massive argument. I had, but I wish it had only been as friends because THEN, I could have been honest and not let my feelings get in the way. Those arguments, when I was so awful to your ex-girlfriend and you said it had made things worse, but you didn’t blame me. Thank you.

I’m doing it again, see? Exposing your privacy. Telling the internet what you said, what you did, still trying to make myself feel better. Who cares if you’ll never read it? It’s still not fair, and it’s just drudging up old memories and pain.

Honestly, it makes me cringe how I acted before, after we stopped talking utterly in June last year. No goodbye, no anything, only scraps of “Why should I talk to her?” from Holly, and the pain in my mind from countless hours of telling myself I had fucked everything up. I’m presuming that you had so much going on at the time that I was the last thing on your mind, which I respect.

You had no idea how much a simple thing affected me. How, every time I showed it to my friends, I felt sick with myself and pathetic that someone could rule my thoughts. It was toxic, poisonous, crawling underneath my skin through the scratches I left.

Now, when I look back, I wish you hadn’t consumed so much of my thoughts and my time. It’s pathetic really, though both my friends and me tell me it’s not: you were a large part of my life, and so it was only natural – right? For a long time after all of it, your name made me flinch and hate myself just that little bit more. It’s overdramatic I know, but I think only I understood the mind-numbing pain I experienced when you never replied to me. Burning, sinking with all the certainty that you were no longer my friend.

I felt needy, clingy, all the things you described me to be before. I shut everything out sometimes, not letting myself feel the pure hatred I felt for myself, and when I heard your name it was like a slap to the face as my heart split open. All the fights I heard about, the stuff you did at parties, and the ever-present knowledge that you smoked weed: something I thought that you would never do, for reasons nobody but a few people understand. Not that it matters; you most likely think I’ve told everyone, when that’s the furthest from the truth.

I’m not sorry, which surprises me. I feel horribly guilty for how I acted, but I was in love and it wasn’t my fault. You were the first person that truly inspired me to want to help people, support people, which made me into who I am today. People won’t get why I still have to thank you, why I still would care if you got hurt.

Through you, I became friends with the person who hated you, who is now one of my closest friends. That’s probably ironic, so maybe that’s why I’m laughing? My friends at the time are closer to me now, and I’ve made so many new ones too.

We’re talking again, and you act as if you care. THOUGH I’m terrified that I will, I’m trying not to fall into the same trap of trusting you, getting drawn in. I’m not stupid enough this time. So many things have changed about me, like you wouldn’t believe, but I don’t want you to know. My heart doesn’t skip when I see your name and I don’t WAIT for you to reply, because if you don’t, that’s fine.

It makes it easier that you aren’t coming back to our school next year. I don’t have to hear your voice, or your name in class, and the only contact I’ll have with you is the Internet – oh shit, that’s how it was in our friendship. That’s messed up and isn’t how things should be; I’ve learnt that now.

I don’t love you, and haven’t for over a year. It makes me happy to know that, because I can admit that moving on was because of my strength of character. In some corner of my mind, I suppose I hate you, but it’s a muted roar and is nothing important. It’s impractical and immature, far overshadowed by the things that happened after.

All in all? You aren’t why I do things any more. You don’t keep me sane, happy; I’m not the great friend to you I once was, and you don’t trust me on a whole different level. Good.

If I’d have been more honest, less willing to share what we spoke about, and if I didn’t care so much – I wouldn’t have been so hurt, and maybe things for both of us would have ended up differently. But I’m glad they didn’t, as because of you, I grew up, realised how horrible I could be (yes, I’m quoting you) and learned to live with childish guilt.

Have a nice life in college. Maybe one day, we’ll be friends, and we’ll see sides to each other that will remind us of days gone by. Maybe we’ll trust each other, talk about who we’ve fallen in love with, and ask each other how we’ve REALLY been. Until then, I’m very much done with you. For a while, I’ve been STRONG enough to be done with you.

I’m not angry. I’m not sad, not longing for the past, and not crying over how you made me feel. I’m living my life, and if you ever find out about this blog or that I’ve written this, you’ll laugh so hard that you’ll be sick because I’m being too dramatic and sentimental. I don’t care.

From Elm ๐Ÿ™‚

TTTS Week 7 – A Letter to My Preteen And Future Self

… I’m terrible. I know I am. I’ve only done ONE TTTS PROJECT POST UGH PLEASE DON’T KILL ME! I don’t even have a bloody excuse…

So, for week 7, we had to write a letter either to our preteen or future selves – and I’m doing both, because I’m living on the edge like that. Here we go.

I don’t know how old you are right now – I’d guess 11. And if I’m right, please listen to me.

You’ve got some difficult years ahead, but when things happen, don’t regret any of it. You’ll learn from your experiences.

Elm, I know it’s difficult now. Something’s recently just happened, or is going to happen soon, that will fuck you over – get used to the language. You say worse.

That’s what I want to talk about now. No matter what, it’s okay. You might not know what happened, or what’s going to happen fully, but I know you had a pretty good idea. There’s just one thing: if you can help it, don’t tell too many people. I told too many, and that’s the ONLY thing I regret.

It’s so difficult. Even now, I find it difficult, but it’s okay. Nothing about it is your fault – in fact, don’t blame yourself for anything. Nothing is ENTIRELY your fault.

You’re strong. I know it was difficult to find friends in primary school, but it gets easier. It gets SO much easier, and you should have realised that. Realise it now, instead of trying to fit in; people love you for who you are.

Three years or so from now, you’re going to fall in love. It sounds strange, right? But you will have the happiest and worst moments of your life because of that boy; don’t change a thing. Let it run it’s course. You’ll be hurt, but it gets better. I promise.

Speaking of, loving anyone is okay. You’ll go through some pretty stupid “crushes”, I can guarantee that. But seriously, just be yourself. I can’t stress that enough.

It’s going to be difficult, but you have so many friends now. It gets better; I just wish you knew that. I’d never change a thing, so please don’t wish you could.

Stay strong for everyone, okay? Right now, they need you. Usually, I’d tell you to look after yourself, but you can do that once this is over. Never forget that.

There’s so much more I’d like to say, about how you can be amazing. You’ll only keep one solid friend from primary – I know you’d be glad to hear that. I wish that it was two, but you can’t change the past; who knows, maybe you’ll see him again.

Always be yourself. Your dad and sister – and hell, even your mum – love you. They always have.

It’s difficult now, and it’s difficult in the future, but it gets worse before it gets better.

Love from you

* * *

I don’t know how old you are now. 20? 25? Does it even matter?

You’ll look back on this and think, “God, I’m immature.” Or “What was I thinking?”

Or I bloody well hope you won’t. Are you serious? We worked so damn hard on this blog and this life.

Is Ash still around? I’d laugh if he was. You know how paralysed with fear we’d get at the thought of him talking to us again. It’s difficult, right? I know, right now, that there are still things left unsaid – knowing him, he’ll say them.

Did you ever reconcile with Palm? Oh, what happened with S – do you even REMEMBER S? And Palm, too; it was only a 2 week relationship, but things stick in your mind like that.

I wonder what we’re like now. I dread to think. If you’ve got married already, I’ll kick you. Joking – or am I? Did you go to uni? Did you ever meet up with Cassia again? If you didn’t, I’ll kick you, and I mean that.

I have questions for the future, and advice for the past. It’s weird, isn’t it?

Do you still love singing, and songwriting? Bloody hell, I hope you’ve at least got 10 or 15 more songs done by now. Knowing you, you won’t, but there you go.

If I read this letter in 10 years, I’ll laugh. Or will you, maybe?

What name do you go by now? Do you even GO on the internet any more? For blogging, I mean; if you’ve abandoned this, I swear to anything I believe in (which is nothing) that I willhit you.

Sorry, sorry…

Love from your younger, 15-year-old, irritating-as-hell self.

I prefer the first letter, but the second letter is genuinely how I’d talk to myself.

You’ve probably noticed that in the first letter, I talk about an event that happened when I was 11. That’s… Very complicated and I really don’t want to get into it right now. Perhaps one day, I’ll talk about it, but it’s difficult. I just wanted to say that because you may ask questions.

Merci for reading!

From Elm ๐Ÿ™‚