Letters to Myself, Part I

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Writing Letters

I have a history of mental illness in my family. I consider myself fortunate that it only gave me depression when I was thirteen (the year of dealing with compulsory shit, apparently). However, it’s left a permanent squatter inside my head. A voice that I’m sure many of you are (sadly) familiar with.

One day while I was staring at a blank page and the voice in my head seemed incredibly loud, I found myself writing. Anything to drown it out. Anything.

This series has helped me a little. So I thought I might share it.

Just in case.

11 August 2015

Dear Lee,

You are not going crazy.

This is life right now. It’s working until 2am in the morning and then feeling empty for a week. It’s coming home and eating dinner and going to sleep and waking up to do it all over again. It’s trying really hard to spend time with family and friends and love, and then peering back at the seconds bleary-eyed, wondering where they went.

You’re tired.

You’re tired, Lee. Tired of making goals and tired of achieving them and then watching them recede into the distance. Time goes too fast. You were never going to catch up.

And it’s okay.

It’s okay to stop running, for a bit.

You’ve got what you wanted. A shot at the job of your dreams. You’ve done your best. That’s all you can do. Now’s the time to curl up and consolidate. To remember what beauty tastes like. To imagine again. To wonder. To write worlds into being.

So read, damn it. Read. Not just old, familiar, comforting things (although these are good for you too, like hot soup). Read something new. Remember what it’s like to discover a story for the first time, that moment it sinks its jaws in and pulls you along for the ride.

Yes. Read. Imagine. Dream. And slowly come back to life.



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