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Dear Younger Self,

I’m back, and I have more to say. Stay seated.

I don’t care to put make-up on you. Mom always said no. She always said you’re too young. Your favorite nail polish color was white/pinkish opal creamy color. Mom never wanted to do your nails but would ask you for help with hers. In 6th grade, a friend gave you a purple eye shadow, which you wore a few times at school. The school nurse noticed, (because you needed your inhaler). She called mom to tell her what you did and of course you got in trouble.

Mom never really cared about your safety. So you were a bit adventurous and seeking high adrenaline. Sometimes you invited dangerous situations just to feel card about. You would wish to get kidnapped, “anyone PLEASE, just use me.” Pathetic. I can’t blame you though. You didn’t know better. YOUU just wanted love. Look where that got us.

You hated dad so much; you chose someone like him. But surprise, surprise. Your choice was worse. Dad always said you were lesbian. He wasn’t wrong. I tried to change you, and mold you to who we should be, but you just couldn’t feel it.

You weren’t allowed to listen to anything other than what mom and dad played. Makes sense that you like Rock N Roll. I like rap. I started listening to the radio at 13 years old.

You were isolated and cruel. The only feelings you had were anger and sadness. That’s sad. You were always crying. Dad used to take you everywhere he went. Even if it was for adults only. That’s probably my idea of fun is drinking, drugs, running around, gambling, smoking, THE WIND. You were exposed to too much. I used to think you were a free spirit but now I’m wondering if they were early signs of BPD or Bipolar. You were in a perfect storm. Statistics say you should have been dead by now, or pregnant as a teenager. Just letting you know; I would never let that happen. I’m too prideful.

You had maybe one birthday party or two, but one that you remember. You went to a couple of parties in elementary school but that’s it. Mom and dad didn’t like celebrating you. They still don’t. More than anything I

feel shame. Shame that I made it another year and I should drink and cry for the next three days. Because no one celebrates you. I don’t care too. I do buy myself a perfume every year. At least we have one semi-tradition going on.

You don’t grow up to be anything great. You can blame mom and dad for that. Blame all the “adults.” Our intelligence is going to waste.

I have no words of encouragement or motivation for you. I just try to ignore everything and keep going. But when I rest, you come out. And you want to play. But I have nothing. No energy for you. So, I punish you too and stuff you in the box.

Adult you,