In the US edition of Marie Claire, there was a contest where people wrote letters to themselves at age 18.  Since then, I’ve read quite a few of other blogger’s letters.  I’m in one of those moods today where nothing’s going to cheer me up.  I’m tired and it’s pulling me down.  So, what better way of wallowing than writing my own letter to my 18 year old self.

Dear Little Star

You’ve just turned 18 and I hate to say it, but you’re screwed.  These past few months haven’t been easy but it’s only going to go downhill from here.  Things have to get worse before they can begin to get better.

Those friends you’ve got around you – look real hard at them and see them for who they really are.  Ditch most of them.  These are the ones who’ve stuck around for the past three months.  Most of them won’t be around in three years time, let alone seven, when you’ve finally started to get your shit together.  In fact, in seven years time, when you’re writing this letter back to yourself, you won’t even remember some of those who were at that table.  You’ll know they were there, but their names will escape you.

That guy you’re about to meet.  Well, don’t go there.  It’ll all seem rosy at first, but, when you go back into hospital with scars and cuts on you, when you go back into hospital having lost 2 stone in just over a month from barely eating, he’ll make his support all about him, it’ll turn into how he’ll cope, not how you’ll cope.  Remember what the doctor said to you, that it’s all about taking care of yourself now, you need to remember that, because he won’t.  He’ll sugar-coat it, make it seem like he’s taking care of you, but really he’s looking out for number one.  The trouble is you’ll stick around, because it seems like he loves you when very few others do.  Maybe he does, maybe you’ll love him, or maybe you’ll both just love the idea of each other.  Either way, it won’t do you any favours to wait around for him to sort himself out because he won’t. 

And when his problems start kicking off it’ll be all about him once more.  He won’t stop to realise just how ill you are, how you need to head straight back into hospital.  He won’t realise that you’re wavering between starving yourself and popping laxatives at every opportunity to rinse out the constant binging because however hard you try you can’t make yourself sick.  And when you tell him, he’ll be convinced it’s all a front, a ploy to make him feel guilty so that you’re justified in dumping him.  Once again, it’ll be all about him.

Once it’s over be careful how you shower your affections.  You’ll rebound from one to the next and the next again and be happy with the lack of effort you have to put in.  Remember that when you’re not making an effort, neither is anyone else.  Don’t expect much, in fact don’t expect anything at all.  No-one will give you anything but trouble.

You may be off the meds, but that doesn’t mean you don’t need them, that you don’t need someone to carry you.  You won’t find that someone in the places you’re looking.  The people you’re looking to don’t want to be that someone.  Know that despite everything you went through, you never really made the best use of the friends you had.  It’s too late now, they’ve slipped away.  Sure, they’re you’re friends, but they’re not ‘that’ type of friend. 

Someone will come along.  You won’t understand him.  You’ll be scared of him, scared of the past he so openly tells you about.  Cautiously you’ll agree to meet him, thinking that he won’t show.  You have a back-up plan so that the trip won’t be wasted.  Of course you’ll miss your train by seconds.  You won’t want to wait another hour for the next one because you do want to meet him, so you’ll lose £50 on a taxi that will only get you half way there. 

He will understand you.  He won’t care about your past, that you’re fatally flawed.  He’ll take all those things and love you anyway.  He’ll know early on that you’ll get married, but you won’t believe him.  You won’t believe that that could possibly happen. 

And some time in your future, you’ll be sitting at your desk, writing this letter to your 18 year old self, knowing how much you’ve grown.

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