ᝰ.ᐟ ten years

"Dear younger me..."

Dear ten-year-old me,

We’re almost eighteen now. An adult. Just like you wanted.

You wanted to get out of that house. Away from Mommy and Daddy who yelled all the time; about money, about food, about you and your sisters. You wanted out.

You wanted to get away from your younger siblings, from all the responsibility that was placed on your shoulders. The shoulders of a child too young to be worried about when—if—Mommy and Daddy were coming home from work.

You had to get away from the teasing. But it was just that, teasing, right? But it hurt, didn’t it? It cut deep. You never told anyone. We still haven’t.

You’re not a crybaby, or too emotional. You never were.

You were a child, stressed and tired from everything you were forced to bear. That’s why you cried a lot. You were empathetic. Which is a wonderful character trait to have. Especially in this day and time. That’s why you were perceived as “too emotional.”

You felt for everyone—felt everything—so deeply that it couldn’t be understood but by someone who felt as deeply as you.

You wanted to be pretty. I’d say we’re still not pretty but if I was placed in front of you, and asked to tell you that, I wouldn’t be able to do it.

So, I’ll say we think we’re pretty sometimes. We’re pretty until we see a girl our age at Walmart. Or until we see a picture of one of our friends.

You believed it was vain to find yourself beautiful. And we still do. The idea of perceiving one’s self as attractive seems selfish, almost.

Who am I to think I’m prettier than them?

You wanted boys to pay attention to you. They do now. But not in the way you’d see in movies or with your parents on a good day.

No, they only want your body.

You don’t find yourself beautiful so you don’t understand why you’re getting all this unwanted attention. Why want a body that’s not beautiful? Why kiss a face that bares scars from childhood accidents and enough acne for two teenage girls? Why you?

I can’t answer that question. I don’t know. I’ve never asked any of the guys who couldn’t keep their hands to themselves. I wish I had.

But you’re not out. You’re not getting out. Because there’s no reason to leave. Sure, Mom and Dad still argue, you’re still perceived as “too emotional,” you feel overwhelmed a lot—but you’re still here.

No matter how many times you wanted to leave—your family, this earth—you couldn’t. Because you knew that was giving up. Quitting. Letting everyone and everything telling you that you weren’t good enough, win.

So, you’ve stayed. To prove them wrong. To prove yourself wrong. You have to.

—your older self

♡