Elisabeth Writing

Dear Younger Me,

To the little girl Liz. You were so desperate for affection, even back then. You had it with your family, and you had a few friends who cared for you, but a lot of the time you felt like a misfit. A lot of times it was the bullies who made you feel that way, with their hurtful words and the way they shut you out. Children can be hateful to one another, as you saw. You just wanted to be seen, loved and accepted so badly that you used to cry about it, nightly. Your mother would sit by your bed and comfort you, tears in her own eyes. You used to use your allowance to go to the dollar store and buy little things to give to your classmates, so they’d love you, even if just for a moment. You hid in your stories and in trees. I think if I could gather you up in my own arms and tell you something, I’d say… don’t change who you are. You are vibrant. Don’t break pieces of yourself off to people who will toss the shards away. Don’t stop writing. It has and will continue to save you. Don’t stop sketching. I wish you’d never stopped. Stand up did yourself: it’s ok to draw a hard line, to put your fisted hands on your hips and stomp your foot. It’s ok to love your quirks and oddities. It’s ok to be discerning. One day you’ll be loved for all of those things. I know you can’t imagine it right now, but it’s true. Don’t lose yourself, please. It’s taken me almost 25 years to find you again. 

To the teenage Liz. Oh boy. Where do I begin with you? I know how hard it was for you growing up, up until age 16, when you suddenly became “pretty” to the world. Smoking weed, dressing in leggings and short skirts, the swoop bang haircut, red lipstick – and then the world seemed to fall at your feet. It went to your head. I still remember that feeling. That feeling of – “they like me! They really like me!” I wish I could have told you, darling, no. They like your big green blue eyes and your blonde hair and your long legs. They don’t know you. They don’t know how you still read books about faeries, how you write poetry about unicorns, how you are waiting for a love that will shoot you into the stars and beyond, how you crave acceptance, how you bury your face into your pillow to scream and cry nearly every night, how you sometimes imagine your coffin, how you are dark and light and everything in between. They don’t know that weed and alcohol are fucking dangerous to you. To be fair, you don’t know that either – at least, not totally consciously, yet. I wish I could go back in time and SHAKE YOU. I wish I could scream, PUT DOWN THE FUCKING BOTTLE IT IS GOING TO RUIN YOUR LIFE! I wish I could say, THAT BOY LOVES YOU AND YOU ARE RUINING THAT LOVE! I wish I could cry out, HANG OUT with your family, in 12 or so years your father will be GONE! I also wish I could hug you. Because I’ve read the journals and letters from that time, and it breaks my fucking heart. You struggled with wanting to die and wanting to live. You weren’t diagnosed properly and the meds were fucking you up. You were bipolar, and no one would listen. You had disordered eating, and no one understood how deep that went. You wrote hearts in your journal and the name of your first love. And then, you wrote suicide notes which you threw into the proverbial fire. You were such a fucking mess. And you started shoving away the pieces of yourself that the world didn’t understand. You could be weird – but only slightly. You could talk about faeries and ghosts, as long as you wore a pretty dress and pink lipstick. I wish I could say, stop chopping yourself into pieces that are easily digestible. If they choke on you, fuck them. They weren’t worth it. I wish I could hug you and tell you that one day, you’ll be ok. You’ll find yourself again. You’ll love yourself, even if sometimes it’s a fight to do so. One day you’ll be ok. I promise. 

To the Liz in her early twenties. I just want to tell you, I’m proud of you. I’m proud of you for getting sober. I’m proud of you for going to massage therapy school and doing something new. I’m proud of you for having a healthy relationship that doesn’t require weed or alcohol or pain. I’m proud of you for turning your life around and for being there for your family when your dad got cancer and your mom had a stroke. I want to soothe you and say, things will get hard again. But you’ll be stronger. I promise. Just DO NOT GIVE UP. And give your dad an extra hug. You’ll miss the times you could. 

To the Liz in her late twenties. You’re going to fuck up, a lot. Like, a lot! You’re going to realize that you have no idea who you are anymore. You’re going to leave someone you love dearly because you don’t know what else to do, you don’t know how to get back to yourself. You’re going to fall in love with an urbanite elf and then, once again, realize you don’t know who the hell you even are, so how could he? You’re going to lose your father and experience the kind of pain you never could have imagined. You’re going to scream when you touch his ashes. You’re going to sink low, low, low into yourself, until you’re nearly six feet under. You’re going to miss your father so badly that you would do anything to numb that grief. you’re going to move to North Carolina with your mom and find a brief peace in the mountain air. You’re going to shatter that peace with a tumultuous relationship that becomes a mirror to you – a wounded and toxic empath who needs deep healing. You’re going to run away and run to this relationship over and over and over again. You’re going to contemplate suicide and weep at what you’ve become, hardly daring to speak your fathers name in case he sees what you’ve done and who you are. You’re going to move a few more times thanks to other horrific circumstances. You’re going to make two new best friends: a friend from that small mountain town who beams with light, and a lioness who was always right under your nose. My advice? Let it ride. You’re learning about who you are underneath it all. You’re prodding your own wounds until puss oozes out, disinfecting and cleaning those deep injuries to self. You’re learning about how to live with broken hearts and broken pieces. You’re starting to learn how to heal them. Just keep on going baby girl. You’ll be ok. Sooner than you think, you’ll be ok. 

To the Liz in her early thirties. I’m proud of you. You saw the monstrous side of yourself and didn’t run. You dove into healing with the alacrity of an Olympic diver. You wrote letters of pain and apology to the people you loved most. You set up an altar and declared yourself a true witch once more. You laughed. You cried. You lost your elf and missed him so fiercely it felt like a missing limb. You, as Rihanna said, “found love in a hopeless place.” My advice to you, now? Live these moments in full. Cry and scream and laugh and dance and be awed at life and its beauty. Don’t forget to look in the mirror and see the truth. Don’t be afraid at those dark sides of self, those shadow wounds. Don’t ever be afraid to be who you are, not ever again. Realize you’ll never stop growing or healing. Be at peace. You are never alone.