Hello dear readership, we are back in the tropics. I was delivered to my grandmother’s door on Christmas day at 5am. I chose the word “deliver” because I don’t feel I’ve arrived. This has been the first Christmas we have spent together in over 10 years. I don’t know why it was decided last time that my mother and I would return before Christmas. Maybe I inherently know my threshold for home.
Before we do a recap on how I ended up in the same place. And to hone down to the specifics of what I mean, I am literally sitting in the same chair, at the same table, where you all faithfully witnessed my mental demise last round. I am also in the same predicament: jobless, loveless, weighted by the grief of a phantom broken heart. At least, I am in better physical health. Let’s put aside that I spend Christmas night puking up my guts from google diagnosed dehydration. It’s fine, this little heroine perseveres.
To toast the upcoming arrival of a new decade (2020 show me something good, my love) let’s do a exercise in retrospection.
If I had a chance to speak to my 22-year-old self (that’s now minus a decade. Age reveal!).
Here’s what I would tell that stubborn little hell raiser:
You are 22 and you know god damn everything. You will kill yourself to be right that he is the one because you believe so desperately in redemption stories and more so in true love. Plot twist, he wont change. Leave him be.
You will break a few hearts but will only be sorry over two of them. You’ll make the same mistake twice. Shake it off. You’re a romantic, the best love story is yet to be written.
You will grieve, it will hurt. I want to tell you it will heal but we are still in the process.
You need to eat better, you get too skinny when sad.
Do more living. But not in the dumbass impulsive way that you do things. Think about consequences better. Take your own advice. Be as nice to yourself as you are to your friends. Admit defeat and admit emotion. Find balance between pride and humility. You’re going to swallow a lot of pride, get used to the taste.
You’re going to have a lot of really good memories. Times that your heart will burst from love, you’ll laugh so hard that it ends in tears, you will be so immensely grateful for your friends. And your relationship with your mother will settle into a reverent understanding of her humanity. Cut her a break.
You will be sad, you will be really sad, it will cut so deep you can’t breathe anymore. You will be disappointed in people. You will lose faith. You will lose strength. You will feel alone. You will recover cause you my little heroine have got go. It’s hard for me to stand here at the end of 10 years and try to remember how much of the good there was in relation to the bad but life is not Math. Lucky, cause you don’t get better at Math.
Try write more when you’re not in a emotionally fucked place. You might improve.
Don’t worry about work. Be wary of your truth. Put in less effort. Care less about manipulative bitches. The money isn’t worth it.
And, lastly, my angel, the wounds all heal. I promise.
current SJ xx