26–07–2019
Hey J,
Another birthday, another year gone by. You are twenty now, a big step from nineteen. You aren’t going to die a teenager. Wow. Feels weird, right? I know, I know. I would like to tell you that your life has become better in the past year. I would like to tell you that you have grown happier and your life has gained color. But that would be lying, J. And one thing we cannot do is lie to ourselves because we are one and the same.
Today, you spent your day with a fake smile while blinking back tears. Birthdays are for reflecting and your life has not been something to write home about. The truth is you cannot tell what it is, but something is missing in your life and you cannot figure what it is. When you were little, you imagined that emotions were things that could not coexist. You thought that they were all-encompassing, all-consuming. If a person was happy, then that was all he felt, if he was sad, then that was all he should feel. You know better now because your life is one big punch bowl; the sadness, the depression, the joys, the highs, and the lows all poured together.
There’s plenty to be sad about; your grades, your acne-scarred face, your lack of money (to put it lightly), the constant rejections for your writing, etc. But even worse than the sadness is the tiredness; you are tired of feeling the same way over and over again, tired of putting in so much effort and getting little or no reward, tired of complaining to your friends and tired of their kind and reassuring replies.
“You are amazing and talented.”
“You are doing great”
“Cheer up, it’s not that bad”
“It could be worse”
Nobody ever talks about how hard loving yourself is. How difficult it is to look in the mirror and love the person staring back at you despite all the heartache and stress, all the rejections and failures. How insane it is to feel so detached from yourself and hate this other being who is so separate from you on an idealistic level yet the same as you. How you wake up every morning sad and upset because you are still alive and have to face the drudge of existence; existing with all the emotions coexisting. And when you feel the love and support from your friends and family, it worsens because you cannot understand how these beautiful souls see a gem when all you see is mud.
You don’t love yourself, J. Why? You don’t know. How long do you think you can go on living like this? How long can you survive in a house that revolts you? In the past year, you tried to kill yourself. It was a half-hearted effort, more like a rehearsal, you know? Testing the waters. For the better part of the last six months, you kept a razor blade with you at all times; a silent reminder that if you got too overwhelmed, there was a way out. But you are here, alive because you are too chicken to kill yourself.
You are alive anyway, and that’s all that matters. That’s what your friends say. You are alive, breathing and kicking (although with only your left leg, seeing as the right one is sprained). And as long as you are alive, there is a little glimmer of light in the thick darkness, the silver lining, the maybe. Maybe it will all pass away and you’ll find happiness and contentment and do away with this stupid but strong need for validation. Maybe you will wake up and be thankful for a new day, a fresh start. Maybe, you will look in the mirror and smile. Maybe, just maybe.
PS: Do you remember how the last birthday letter ended? No? Let me remind you: “But it will work out, it has to.”
