To my precious, sad noodle:
Right now, you feel like you’re going to feel like this forever. The waves of pain have washed over you again, and you’re drowning, breathing in and swallowing the briny, salty water faster than you can spit it out and take a breath. It feels overwhelming and terrifying. You’ve been here before, and you hate that you’re here again. You knew it was coming, but still, you hate feeling this way, especially since probably not that long ago you were doing just fine. But that is the nature of things: they ebb and flow, and we must ebb and flow too, for resistance is often futile. Not in a nihilistic, pessimistic way, but rather in a way that gives you freedom to surrender. Surrender into the embrace of this unknown pain, and get to know it. Befriend it. Get familiar. When you’ve learned what you were meant to learn from it, wish it well as it departs.
I know that when you feel like this, you also start to think of ways to end the pain. You don’t really ever heavily entertain the idea, but rather you dance with it, flirting with the edge of a chasm that you would never be able to climb back up onto if you were to take that final plunge. Before you even start to go down that path, I want you to stop. Take a deep breath. Thank about all that has come to pass so that you could take that very breath. And the next one. And the next one. Sacrifice and surrender have yielded your existence, and every breath is a miracle. You’ve saved lives, including your own, so save it again. Muddle through this bone-chilling sadness with all the grace and strength that’s been bred and beat into you and show others that it can be done. The world would be a much darker place without you in it, and remember: you would not be erasing the pain, but rather transferring it to someone else. In this case, you’d be transferring it to numerous people, people you care deeply for, that you don’t want to hurt. So don’t.
All that you know, all that you are, and all that you feel is temporary, fleeting. Nothing you’ve experienced has lasted forever, and this won’t, either. As you retreat into this cocoon, imagine the ways you will come out the other side as more vibrant and wise, grateful and restored. Think about all the times you’ve surrendered before, and how far you’ve come. Think about all the songs you haven’t heard; laughter you haven’t caused; ages you haven’t reached; paths you haven’t taken. Even when it feels like the world is burning, there is hope to be found in the embers. You are strong — stronger than anyone knows. But it’s okay if you don’t feel strong right now. It’s okay that you hate this, that you wish it would end, that something would just give so that you can finally feel released. Lean into all of that. Feel it fully, learn its intricacies, and treat it with kindness. Next time it comes, it’ll be a familiar friend that you know is only staying for a short time.
As for right now: tell someone you love them. Look in the mirror and say, “I love you.” Because I do love you. Me, sitting here, feeling fine, loves you, probably sitting on your floor with tear-swollen eyes. I love you. Hug Georgie. Make yourself a warm cup of tea and breathe in the steam. Look out the window and ponder the grandiosity of the world, of the universe. Listen to The Maine. Read this letter 50 more times, if you need to. Whatever you do, just please take care of the girl that I love so dearly. I cannot wait to meet the next version of her that emerges from this immense pain.
Breathe, surrender, take great care. Hang on to hope like a buoy. You are okay. And if you aren’t now, you will be soon.
All my love,
You Are Ok: https://youtu.be/–25CSFCMM8