"Just write". I tell myself those two simple words every day. And it should be easy, right? I mean, three years ago there was nothing that came easier to me than writing. The words would flow out of me and reveal my every thought; pages filled with black letters on white background.
But that was three years ago. Today everything is different. Now, I grieve for my younger 12-year-old self, remembering how she wanted to become an author so desperately; how nothing could stop her from dreaming. If you would tell her that instead of going on big adventures, her 16-year-old self would spend her New Year's Eve crying on the bathroom floor and still struggle with basic social interactions, she would laugh. No way! She had big plans for her teenage years.
I wish I could just go back in time and tell her everything she needs to know, because the coming years won't be pretty - in reality, I can't even remember most of them. My brain just decided to delete all the bullying, family problems and self-hating and I don't blame it for that. I understand why it was smarter to get rid of all those negative memories but I wish it had kept some of the important stuff because now I have no idea who I actually am.
- 03/05/2022