For My Soul

The letters

Write a letter to your younger self

Amelia's Letter

I can't seem to select the right Amelia to which I am writing. I don't know whether to address this to the sixteen-year-old me or younger... I don't know whether I should write to her and tell her that despite it only being two years since I was so unwell that I couldn't leave the house, we can finally leave the safety net of the bookstore. I want her to know that going outside isn't awful anymore. I want her to know that now we even leave the house to nurture our minds, we enjoy the feeling of the sun, wind, and rain on our skin. We enjoy the smiles from strangers, no longer fear the eyes of the unknown, and are not scared something awful will happen. I don't know whether to address this letter to her and tell her to let them push her outside, encourage school, and not push for isolation. It's not what you need; it's just fear telling you it's easier to be alone. It's not easier to be alone. At all.

But even then... Telling her this won't help the thirteen-year-old girl who knew she was so different from everyone else. I want to write to her. I want to write to her and tell her that she is not insane. No matter what you think or what the voice inside your brain tells you, you're not fundamentally different from the other people around you; you have not lost your mind. You are ok. You are just terrified right now. And these thoughts are the product of a fearful mind. The fear just cycles and gets stronger and stronger, and the more you don't tell anyone about how bad it is, the worse it will get.

I want to tell her that it's ok to ask for more help, to feel your feelings, and to express how bad they affect you. But I also want to remind the thirteen-year-old me that my behaviour is watched by Mae, and it is also being learned. She learned from her older sister that not dealing with stress is the way to cope with it. She understood that explosions of feelings are normal... And they're not. The feelings are normal... The need to express and gain support is normal... But you can do that without hurting others. You can be mindful of how your current meltdowns impact your little sister, who greatly idealizes you.

And then there is seven-year-old me. The seven-year-old realized that other children didn't feel all her fear. The seven-year-old who was labeled as too sensitive at parent's evening... Who was described as timid and shy and needed to be pushed more out of her comfort zone? I want to tell her that she is not too emotional or sensitive and that it's ok to feel everything you are feeling. That you deserve to express them. It is okay that you cannot do the same things as other children. It is ok that the idea of new things sets you close to tears, that sports day, trips, fairs and carnivals, things you feel you should enjoy, actually send you into a panic attack. There's nothing fundamentally wrong with you; you just need more support than others. And I want to tell you that you shouldn't have been made to feel ashamed for that. Instead, the adults around you should have identified the early signs of an anxiety disorder and helped you much earlier than they did. Which is not my parent's fault. They didn't know. But someone else could have. So, I want to tell you that it is not our fault. It's not anyone's fault. But you just need a little more help. And honestly, as you grow up... You will get that help. And it gets so much easier.

I want to tell my different little versions that I will be ok. That this living thing is doable. That even though some days are rough still now... The feeling eases occasionally. More than occasionally, actually. But the main thing I need them to know is that it doesn't always feel so bad. At those moments, it feels like there is no choice but to stop feeling anything at all... there are actually so many more choices to be made.

And I guess that brings me back to the list. Back to me, a mere half a year ago... 18 years old, just like I am now... And I want to tell her to not do it. I know we didn't. I know we didn't end our lives more out of spite of that doctor than anything else... But please know that you will destroy your family and your friends, and you will miss out on so many things if you end your life before it has even begun. It's finally starting, Amelia, the life you wanted. The friends. The connections. The colors are coming back, and it is God damn beautiful. The list helps.

Admittedly, this isn't what the list was originally for. Shall I explain it to you before you even get the idea? Hopefully, reading this will tell you how unwell you are. How irrational your thought processes are. But the list was all just an attempt to save your soul from the flames of eternal hell. Which isn't something you really believe in. It's just something you realized your dad might believe in as you wrote all the ideas down. You thought that if suicide was really something that would lead to hell, you didn't want to take your own life and then your dad to believe that you were stuck unpeaceful for the rest of time. You wanted to make sure that if you did die and there was miraculously a decision-making process about where your soul ended up, you wanted God to have seen that at least you tried to live. You made the list so that everyone would see you trying to actively get better, and then, if the depression won, at least it would be easier to forgive. If you did all the tasks on the list and still felt terrible, you were allowing that as permission to end your life because at least then everyone would have known you tried to fight it.

I want to tell you to not make that list. The list is practically just a tick list of what to do before you die so that at least everyone knows you tried. Ok no. Do make the list. Make a list, and every morning, wake up and pick a task to do that day in the hope that it might make you feel better. Trying to feel better often helps. Make a list and try your hardest because before this... you have never really actively tried to positively manage your mental health. Try to make yourself feel better because, honestly... maybe it is that the little tasks have opened up my social world and allowed me to make more connections... but they have helped. I do feel better than I did. It's not every day anymore.

But please don't do anything permanent. Because the feelings are not permanent.

It gets better.

You feel better.

Right now, you even feel happy.

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River's Letter

River,

Amelia is writing. She is sitting across from me, her hair creating a barrier between her and the rest of the room. She writes down something fast- the words spread quickly from her brain, or wherever these things stem from, down through her body, her hand, and across the white journal page. I am writing what I see because I cannot write reassuring words to you yet. There is nothing I can assure you.

Amelia is a girl you meet in college. I guess that's significant. College. You go. You get in. You're studying. And you can actually do it. Your essays need work, but the professors keep complimenting your critical thinking.

I guess that comes with the need to be suspicious of everything. Of everyone. I think that comes from the lack of trust you feel towards everything.

Your Dad dies.

So that's something to look forward to. There's not much else.

You get taken in by good people. They're ok. They love Audrie. Not more than you do. But more than anyone else has.

You failed at looking after her. Before. You fucked up so bad that she ended up hurt.

I wonder if this was real and if I could write a letter to my younger self... if I could change what happened.

Fuck. I would tell you to go and set fire to that house again. Or at least I would ask you to never let them take Audrie away. I would say to you to get your shit together so that when Dad finally fucking collapses and you and your baby sister's situation is ultimately evaluated by the social, they find you looking after her better than they actually did. That she doesn't get placed in the system.

Ok, maybe don't set any more fires.

She needs you.

Don't do what you did.

I think this letter is supposed to reassure you. It is supposed to say that things get better. I guess they do. Or at least they change from the shitty life you lived with Pap in that house. But all I know is regret. All I know is that this shit sticks.

All I know is the changes are irreversible.