Letter to my 20-year-old self

Dear Rebecca –
or, I suppose, dear me,
because this is weird enough
without starting off all formal
when I’m talking to my own damn self.

Okay. Here’s the thing.
It feels right now like everything’s shit;
that’s because right now everything’s shit.
You’ve had six years of awful
after eight years of awful and, spoilers,
you’ve got a lot more awful to go.

You’re in a place too big for you
and you’re flying off the rails
and you wake every day terrified
that at some point your breakneck pace
is going to send you face first
into a hard, brick, soon-to-be bloody wall.

You’re afraid that it’s The Thing happening again,
where you manage to meet people
and somehow they want to be around you
and then you find some way
to monumentally fuck it up.
Just like you always do.

Well, bad news, it is. Sorry.
In not too long you’re going to run
away from all those good people,
ghost out of their lives smoothly
and fly into the arms of new friends,
just like you always do.

But here’s the thing about The Thing;
it’s over then. That’s it, it’s done,
because the people you’ll find
are too stubborn to let you flee
and too good to give a damn
about the things you’re going
to…well, cock up along the way.

And in ten years and more,
they’re still going to be there
and they’re still going to be idiots
and you’re still going to love them
because they are the ones
who you finally didn’t give up on –
who you finally trusted enough.

Those people will be there waiting
whilst your mind catches up
and gets to a place where it can heal –
and I’m sorry to tell you that,
well, that isn’t going to be quick,
but I promise you’ll get there,
and I promise you won’t be alone.

So know that it’s okay
to be the mess that you are
and know that it’s okay
to get things wrong.
You wouldn’t believe me, of course,
even if you could actually hear this,
but the point is –
it gets better.
It gets better.
It gets better.

And you don’t have to believe that now
for it to be any the less true.