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Dear Younger Self,

You’re probably pacing back n forth with a hundred thoughts per minute. You can keep pacing. Just listen…

7th grade, this is where the “harder” part starts. I didn’t know it was you yelling at me the whole time. You needed help, so I got us a therapist at school. Mom and dad found out ant they expected the therapist to tell them what you spoke about. That’s how we learned about HIPPA. I tried to protect you; it angered me for you. Mom said that you were 2 or 3 when she told you not to eat the rat poison and as soon as she turned around, you tried a little bit. Goes to show you started this ideation long before I did.

At 3 years old you spent a lot of time with dad and slept a lot. Mom worked during the day so he could work at night. She would leave food out for you by your play kitchen and told you not to bother him. Not to ask him for anything. That’s probably where your cold food fixation came from. He also forced you to sleep through everything. Every emotion. You only knew Spanish, and they called you by a different name, that they hadn’t changed yet until you were 7, I believe. Talk about confusing.

Mom would steal change from dad. That was the only way she could buy anything. You two would leave in secret while he was at work or after he called. He always expected mom to be by the phone in case he needed something or called. She would tell you not to tell dad or else he’d get mad. You kept her secrets. She never kept yours.

Your classroom consisted of more Asian and white kids. Everyone bullied you. Not sure why. You liked Bugs Bunny. After your uncles came to the state, you all went to the mall. You loved going to the Disney store. You thought it was the coolest thing ever. They bought you a grey outfit. Long skirt, tank and sweater. During recess the kids told you, you looked ugly.

No one wanted to play with you. Your crush Robbie even tripped you. It was a gloomy day. There was a puddle where you fell. Your legs went up in a circle and they all laughed at you. You cried the rest of the day. Your hair was a mess, and everything was stained now. When you got home mom yelled at you for getting it dirty and your hair was undone. You didn’t tell her why and you never wanted to wear it again. But you didn’t want to get rid of it. She didn’t understand, just criticized. Told you, you begged for that outfit just to get it dirty and not want to wear it again. Now you HAD TO WEAR IT. You would just cry and tell her no because it’s stained in the butt area. Looks like you pooped yourself. Mom kept saying “what do you care what other people think !?” You wanted to tell her, “Mom, they pushed me down !” But you said nothing. You became a brick wall.

Most of your toys were stuffed animals, from Savers. At one point you had so many, mom nailed them to the wall, for all of them to just stare at you. If you moved one, she’d get mad because she worked so hard on that. “But they’re mine.” She told you just to listen. Brick wall, again.

Since you were allowed to read, you wanted to write your own book, or article, or advice column. You asked her for a typewriter. It was red, blue and yellow. You couldn’t use it because it was too loud, or you would run out of ink. Then she would need to use it in the middle of whatever you were doing. “But it’s mine.”

You started noticing she was using you as an excuse to have these things and made you believe it was what you wanted, or for you, so she could have a distraction. Where was your distraction?… Brick wall.

Lonely you.