Future Self

Trigger warning: depression and suicidal themes (in past)

“Where are those scissors?” I mumble to myself, digging through my closet in a last-ditch effort. I have a particular pair that I like to use. It’s been with me since middle school, hence why I’m so attached to it. I’m making a last-minute gift out of paper for my friend’s birthday party.

The corner of my eye catches a slender black notebook. Oh, wow. I haven’t touched that thing in years. It was the notebook I used to carry everywhere with me while I was in and out of psych wards, fighting a harrowing battle against my depression and suicidal ideations. On it, I stuck random stickers on nearly every surface of its faux-leather cover. I grab the notebook, the pads of my fingers picking up a thin layer of dust, and I gently stroke the cover with my thumb. My nail catches on a sticker threatening to fall off. In the middle of the front cover is the title in giant, flowy letters:

this is only the beginning for you

My lips curl into a bittersweet smile. I remember the nights I would clutch this journal close to my chest as I bawled my eyes out, convinced that, “No, this is the end of me!” My lungs would burn from the nonstop sobbing, occasionally managing to suck in a gulp of air before continuing my mental breakdown. In those bleak times, this journal was my only friend I could talk to. Or write to, whatever the phrasing was.

I open it to a random page.

7/10/19

Dear Journal,

I’m so lonely. There’s nothing left for me to live for. I should just get it over with already. I just want to feel better. But I need to write my goodbye letters first. What would I say in those letters? Should I just make one generic letter for everyone, or should I write personalized ones? Would an email be more eco-friendly?

Does this mean I should plan my funeral too? Where do I even start with planning a funeral? Who would even come to my funeral?

Hopefully I get buried with you in my hands, so I can die taking all my secrets to the grave. My family doesn’t deserve to read this journal and sift through my issues when they should move on already.

-C

A pang of sadness grips my heart, and I so desperately want to climb through the journal’s pages and hug my old self deep in their moment of despair.

After years of recovery, I know now that I have so much to live for. But back then, my depression was so dark that I couldn’t see the light in my life – my family, my friends, the little enjoyable things that make life worth living for.

Recovery was a long process. It felt like I woke up in a coffin buried six feet under and had to punch through the wooden lid before clawing my way up through the dirt, not even knowing if I would breach the surface, if I would breathe in fresh air and cry at the beautiful dawn breaking.

I turn to another page and brace myself for whatever grim thoughts I will see. I hope I don’t trigger myself.

8/6/19

Afternoon snack:

I’m trying.

Post-meal intentions: die nap

Thoughts: trying not to have them

Feelings: not good ones

Challenges of meal: existing

Gratitudes: nothing, really

Yep. Sounds like me. Emotionally constipated, in denial, and hardcore disassociating.

I glance at the next page and see a large gap from August 8^th to October 16^th. I check the date again. This must’ve been days before I was sent to my first psych ward. Looking back, I wonder why it took so long for my therapist to send me to the hospital. Maybe it was because I’m funny and try to make everyone laugh. You can’t be depressed if you make yourself and others laugh, right?

I wish that was true. It’d be far cheaper than therapy.

As I begin to flip to another random page, an envelope slips out and falls face first to the ground, landing right before my feet. Huh, I don’t remember putting a letter in this journal. Then again, I don’t remember most things from that time period. I was too depressed to remember anything.

I pick it up and turn it over. For a second, I gauge the letter’s weight and thickness. It’s still light, but I could tell there were at least a few pieces of paper folded inside, making the envelope slightly bulge. In my handwriting, the letter is addressed to:

Future Self

Did I write a letter, back then, to my future self? Why would I do that? At the time, I only wrote stuff down in this journal. Then again, I remember losing access or privileges to this journal multiple times.

Intrigued, I tear open the letter. I guess it was intended for me to rip open at some point, but I never got to it. Most likely, I forgot about this journal the moment I was healthy enough to go home.

Unfolding the stack of papers, I make out scrawled words, smudged graphite forming a hazy, gray layer upon the wide ruled paper. There were pink blotches and flecks littering the page, indicating my rather frequent use of an eraser.

11/25/19

Dear Future Self,

Gina’s making us write letters to our future self for group therapy today. Yay.

Okay, I’ve sat here for like 20 minutes and I still haven’t written anything else. (Also, my concentration’s shot, so that’s not helping.) This is so hard to write because I can’t see any future for myself, can’t even imagine it.

Gina came by to check on my progress. She recommended that I write a letter to my tomorrow self, since I’m having trouble envisioning the far-off future. So let me start again.

The page abruptly ends here, so I move onto the next sheet.

11/25/19

Dear Tomorrow Self,

I hope you didn’t forget too much. I’ve been missing out on all the inside jokes between us patients, even though I was present for most of them. The other patients have been teasing me for being that woman from the “50 First Dates” movie because I always forget what happened yesterday. Apparently, we watched that movie a couple nights ago (not that I remembered watching it) for the fun of it. They’re all still calling me “Lucy”, the name of the woman with short-term memory loss in the movie. Yay. Gotta love ECT.

The sentence makes me pause. ECT. Oh my gosh. How could I forget? I went through electroconvulsive therapy and had the unfortunate side effect of major memory problems. It’s the reason I don’t remember a solid 4-6 months of my life, which are conveniently the months I spent in mental hospitals receiving ECT.

Anyways, I hope you had a good night’s sleep. (Sleep is so amazing. Can’t get enough of it!) I hope you wake up in a good mood. I hope you eat something, even though I know your appetite is still nonexistent.

Sincerely,

Past Self

I turn to the next page.

11/26/19

Dear Future Self,

To meet Gina’s group participation today, I have to either write a response to yesterday’s letter or write a letter to my future self. So, I guess I’ll do the original prompt. Honestly, I felt a little singled out because no one else had to do it (except Terry, who did her ketamine injection yesterday and was knocked out for most the day). I’m low-key jealous of the other patients who get to do CBT word searches. I’m crazy good at word searches.

Sorry for getting off track there. What are my hopes and dreams for the future? Gina told me to start small. Okie dokie. I’ll try that.

I really hope you’re feeling better. I hope you’re in a better place. You can’t get any lower than this, sitting in these uncomfortable chairs. (I learned from the nurses that these chairs were specifically designed so that patients couldn’t pick them up and throw them at other people.) I wouldn’t wish this suffering upon my worst enemy. I hope that you’re alive and happy to be alive. I’m doing my best in recovery, and I hope this hard work isn’t in vain. I hope you’re enjoying life and going back to school, not stuck in psych wards wearing these scratchy hospital gowns like me.

What’s it like over there? Is the grass really greener on the other side? Are you still doing ECT? How’s therapy going?

Did you go back to school? Have you finished college yet? How’s the family doing? Did you make any friends? Have you gotten around to writing that fantasy book you always wanted to write?

Sincerely,

Past Self

This is the last page. I can feel myself tearing up, lips pressed into a thin line. I bring the letters close to my chest and caress them gently. If only I could meet my past self and give them a hug.

For a long time, I stay there in solemn silence. When I started my little art project this afternoon, I hadn’t expected to go through these emotional hoops. Abandoning all thought of finding those scissors, I grab a random notepad and sit down, pen in hand, to write a response to my past self.

2/13/21

Dear Past Self,

I’m doing very well. The grass is really greener on the other side. Thanks for checking up on me. Just wanted to let you know that I (or we) no longer have the memory retention of a fly! I stopped doing ECT when I got on the right meds and my mood improved.

I’m back in school now. I should be graduating in two more years. I’ve kept a handful of friends, both from college and from the psych hospitals. As for that fantasy story, I've been too busy with school to write it. I did outline it, though, and I sketched some of the main characters.

My family’s doing really good. All those high expectations they had for me went out the window when I came back from the hospital. In family therapy, Mom realized that she was unintentionally teaching me conditional love, even though her love was unconditional this whole time. All in all, my family made great strides in emotional development. I’ve never had a better relationship with them.

I know you feel so hopeless and alone right now. Just know that it will get better. It did get better. I know you haven’t heard this enough, so I’ll say it now.

I love you. I am proud of you. You are worthy.

Love,

Future Self