Dear Future Self,
Should I make this a tradition? I read our teenaged self’s previous letter and I just realised just how small and insignificant our problems were back then compared to what I’m dealing with right now, two years after. I mean, I survived my IGs, and made it into a somewhat decent university. I’ve made some, well, acquaintances and survived three whole semesters even though I was having breakdowns the whole time (we love being emotionally unstable, amirite?)
Where the hell do I even start with this? Did you know for like, two months straight at the beginning of the year I thought I was gay or something? Even now I’m still a bit doubtful. Eh, whenever you come back to this letter is when I’ll find out, I guess.
Oh, right, I started writing the book that we’d been thinking about writing since 2017. Yay, but minor caveat is that I’m having a bit of a hard time trying to finish the damn thing, and I feel like my writing skills are starting to fall off. I dunno if I was even that good of a writer in the first place. Whatever it is, I just feel like everything that comes out of me is just shit. There’s so much that I want to change and amend every time I write a new paragraph, and I have no freaking clue what I’m even doing anymore.
Speaking of which, everyone likes to talk about how Gen Z (bleh) is going to lead the future, but how do I even lead the future when all I see is a big, black void. I don’t know if its the social isolation, but I keep feeling like I have nothing going for me. At the same time, I feel like if I don’t get a job, or a driver’s license and somehow manage to make money on my own I’m a failure and should just jump off a cliff. Yeah, you still can’t drive. Pathetic, I know. Hopefully you can drive when you come back to this letter in one or two years to laugh at me for complaining about insignificant shit like this. Cause’ I know I did for last year’s letter.
I keep coming to this realisation every single damn year, and hopefully by the time you remember this letter exists you’re a much more mentally stable and productive person, unlike this mess of a human being that can’t go a day without thinking about dying. Seriously, I’m only eighteen right now and I feel like I’m so sick of living already. I wouldn’t mind just dropping dead right now, just so I don’t have to deal with life anymore. In fact, sometimes I wish I was never born in the first place. I mean, its not like I’m suicidal or anything, it’s just that if I got one of those Covid variants and would die for sure I probably wouldn’t even fight to stay alive.
It’s like I just can’t bring myself to care about anything anymore. The world feels like it’s ending, and every day I feel more and more alone, even in my own house. Dad just keeps hammering the same thing over and over every year, discipline and yadda yadda yadda. At this point he’s probably tired of telling me the same shit over and over, and I’m tired of hearing it over and over. Maybe last year I had hope things would look up, but this year? I don’t even know anymore. I just feel like shit. Look like shit, too, have you seen your hair after three days of not washing it? It’s like you dumped grease in there or something like that. Ew.
I mean, I guess it wasn’t all bad. I met some nice people in my Chinese club, and had an OK time decorating and running the escape room event. That part was OK.
Everything else can go to hell, though, but that could just be the depression talking. I don’t know, I’m not trying to self-diagnose or anything, but it sure felt like it. Now that it’s the holidays I feel like there’s not much reason to get out of bed and do anything anymore. I don’t even want to move, eat, drink, do my laundry, anything.
Oh yeah, before I forget— finals are coming and I’m going into my bachelors next year. Maybe you’re already in it by the time you come back to this letter.
You might look back at this and think ‘Wow, I sure was in a pretty dark place back then. Good thing I’m not like that anymore’, or ‘Oh, you think that was bad? You’re not gonna like what’s coming after this.’ Knowing us, it’s probably the latter. Or not. Or maybe a bit of both. Who knows. I’m not freaking psychic.
So like, I’ll end this here, since even though I’m the only person who can tolerate my own shit, I still have a limit as to how much shit I can tolerate. So bye for now, and good luck progressing into your bachelors next year, I guess.
Sincerely,
Your eighteen year-old-self