Dear Fifteen Year Old Me: We’re Going To Make It
You always forget how far you’ve come until you’re given a reminder of where you used to be.
A while back, out of boredom or curiosity, I don’t remember why, I dug through my old Tumblr archive. For whatever reason, instead of Instagram or Facebook, my friend group in high school used Tumblr as our way of sharing how we were really doing. Yes, we longed to be queens of aesthetic, and yes, every poorly-taken picture we posted reflected the off-brand version of current trends. It was our nearly-anonymous way of shouting our innermost thoughts into the navy blue void where we thought no one would hear them. Sometimes people did, and sometimes that was better.
My sophomore year of high school was, simply put, the worst year of my life. I had a lot of friend troubles, pressure in athletics and school, and numerous other factors that led to nearly a year of crushing anxiety, debilitating panic attacks, and depressive thoughts. There were a couple months where I didn’t have talk to my friends at all, and spent an embarrassing number of lunches hidden away in the bathroom. Admittedly, I can’t remember many specifics from that year, but one of the most vivid feelings I’ve never been able to shake is the split-second of peace I would feel in the morning right after waking up, followed immediately by an overwhelming feeling of disappointment. And exhaustion. And an uncontrollable heaviness captioned by the echoing voice in my head that told me, over and over, “I don’t want to be here.”
It took me a while to quiet that voice.
Eventually, I was able to confide in a couple close friends about how I had been doing and with their help I gradually climbed out of the sunless cave I had ran myself into, but that’s a story for another time.
In the years following, I learned to better handle my anxiety and depression. I made the decision to stay and fought to get better. The mental illness hasn’t gone away, and it’s still something I struggle with every day, but since then it hasn’t been nearly as bad as it was almost six years ago.
It’s easy nowadays to shove that whole year into a bin labeled “My Emo Phase” and hide it under my bed to keep the dust bunnies company, but reading through these posts, I couldn’t help but feel an outpouring of empathy for my teenage self, who for so long felt nothing but hurt and hopelessness.
Why can’t there be a button I can push to make everything okay? Why can’t I just be happy it’s one simple thing why can’t I do that?
No matter how happy I am it always comes back to this.
Nothing is even that important to me anymore. Aren’t I too young to feel like this?
I’m scared that I’ve held everything together so long that when I fall apart I won’t be able to handle it anymore.
You always forget how far you’ve come until you’re given a reminder of where you used to be.
In every word, I saw her lying on my twin bed in my dimly-lit room with a perpetually shut door, silently sobbing herself to sleep because she was so thoroughly convinced things would never get better. I saw her stifling her hyperventilating breaths in the high school’s overly beige bathroom stall as she tried to soothe a panic attack for the third time that week. I felt her in every frustration, breakdown, and cry for help, and it hurt.
If I were to go back in time and curl up next to her on that bed, I don’t think she would believe what I’d tell her: that I’m almost twenty-one, almost graduating college, going to therapy and actively trying to get better, and having the courage to write and share how I’ve grown from the hurt and loss I’ve felt over the years instead of emptily pouring my heart out on a hidden Tumblr page.
I think if she were able to push past the layers of disbelief, she would be proud of me for making it this far.
And if I had the chance to tell her, this is what I’d want her to know.
You’re not a failure. I know it feels that way at times, but you are doing the best you can in the moment, and believe it or not, that is enough.
There’s still not a button you can push to make everything okay. I wish there was, but there’s not. And that’s okay. We’ll get stronger without it.
Sometimes you still shake when you do simple things, and the anxiety attacks are still there, but we have medication for that now. It’s not something to be so ashamed of.
Good things last for you. I promise. They won’t always be the same good things, but when those fade away, new (and better) ones will come along.
You’re going to see the most beautiful, jaw-dropping sunset you’ve ever seen in your life. You’re going to meet the best people. You’re going to discover your favorite band in the whole world (no, it’s not Twenty One Pilots). You’re going to write and sing and create so many incredible, emotional things that you’re proud of. You’re going to go off to college and have a dream of publishing a YA novel (still working on that one). You’re going to fall in love for real (a couple times) and sometimes it will hurt, but it will be worth it. It will all be worth it.
You’re going to make it. We’re going to make it. And I bet you our twenty-five year old self would say the same thing.
I can’t wait to find out.
