An Open Letter to Myself

Dearest.

Please listen to me, if only for the time it takes to read this. 

You need to listen to me.

Because I'm the small voice of reason in the tiniest corner of your brain reminding you that if you cut tonight you will regret it in the morning. 

I'm the love and voice of those who swear their faith in you even when you don't believe in yourself, who've made you promise that you won't kill yourself no matter how dark the darkness becomes.

I'm the singing voice of hope collected from the hundreds of thousands of overcomers screaming that better things are possible and tomorrow is a brighter day.

But most of all, I'm you. 

I'm the you that you wish you could be, the you that you want to be, and the you that you could be. I'm the recovered, better, happy, hopeful version of you, looking back across the chasm at you, stretching out both arms, begging you not to let go tonight.

And if you ever want to get to the other side, you need to listen to me, especially on nights like this. 

Do not believe them - do not let them win - those vicious words in your head which rip you apart like a rag doll, till nothing but tearing yourself further apart could ever stitch you back together again. 

Please do not listen. 

Turn up the music, sing until the tears stream down your cheeks, scream loud enough for God Himself to hear, sob blindly into your pillow until you are breathless and shaking, but whatever you do, don't let them bury their poison in your soul. 

You mustn't heed them. 

You know that they'll destroy you, and I know that you don't care if they do. 

But I care. 

If you do this, if you let them crumble you, if you let go right now, how will you ever reach me?

I know - believe me I know - how insurmountable the darkness which drowns you, whispering softly that 'to live is just to fall asleep, to die is to awake'. 

I know how it feels to ache for the crimson kiss of a razor, to bleed out all the emotions, and swathe your heart in comfortable numbness. 

I hear the shrieking harpies callously point out each and every existent and nonexistent flaw which graces your body. 

I, too, have woken at midnight, week after endless week, screaming, terrified of the visions in my sleep. 

And, 'maybe we're meant to lose the ones we love, but I'll fight for you till then'. 

Because 'this is not what it is, only baby scars. I need your love like a boy needs his mother's side'. 

'This love will set you free from thoughts of yesterday' and you must never ever forget that 'we are more than our bodies', and your beautiful body only contains not defines you.

I know it hurts - God, do I ever know- but, you've gotta promise me you'll 'fight for all you know when your back's against the wall - stand against the liars. Stronger than before, when your life becomes a war - set the world on fire'.

Because, 'fear won't steal what burns in you'. You must not let it. There is a flame alight in you of such  radiant brilliance, and you owe it, not only to yourself, but to all those who would be destroyed were you not to wake up tomorrow, to refuse to let it be extinguished. 

'Though gnashing teeth and grinning tongues conspire against the odds...they haven't seen the best of us yet'......They haven't seen the best of you yet. 

But I've seen it. I know it exists.

I know it's there, and I know it's that part you must arm with sword and shield against the monsters in your head. I swear there is a way to destroy what destroys you without destroying yourself, and even if they never completely leave, someday all that will remain are their bleached bones - the ghosts of former terrors. 

But you must allow the shadows to die. Do not give back life to what only kills you. Arm yourself with beauty, hope, love, laughter, faith, and light, and watch as the destroyers crawl groveling back into the misery from whence they came. 

'The future holds a brighter day for you', darling, and in truth, 'the best is yet to come'. 

'I need you to believe me - can you trust me? - that what you see is not what I see. The reflection in the mirror's telling lies.' and you cannot believe it. 

After all, in the end, you must decide.

You did not choose this darkness - I know that, and I also know that that's irrelevant. 

Because the choice is not whether or not you chose this darkness, or have control over it. We both know you don't. Darkness is its own element and goes where it will, wreaking its own havoc, with no regard for innocence, youth, beauty, love. 

The choice, then, beloved, is whether or not you will fight it. Whether you will hold up the white flag of surrender to your demons, or whether, although battered, scarred, and exhausted beyond human endurance, you will wearily reach yet again and hoist aloft your splintered broadsword to plunge once more into the fray.  

For my sake, for the future, and the day that will come when you look back on tonight and with tears in your eyes whisper thankfully "I made it", please try.

You must at least try.

If you don't try - if you give up tonight - you will never know the joy of true genuine laughter which is not a cover for sadness.

You will never experience the wonder of watching the one you love smile into your eyes as he whispers against your lips the opposite of everything that the voices tell you late at night. 

You will never embark on the journey of life with him, sworn irrevocable to love and cherish, honor and obey, beyond hope and beyond fear, out on the edge of the sea and deep in the heart of the city, until death do you part. 

You will never feel your heart expand with pure happiness as you realize that not everyone is repulsed by your scars, heartbreak, and pain, and that some people not only love you in spite of them, but love you with them, including them, and refuse to allow you to define your worth by them. 

You will never cradle in your arms the miniature child, half you, half the one you love, borne from your own body, and marvel at his sleeping perfection. 

You will never bandage his knees, dry his tears, teach him to read and to drive, laugh with him, hold him when he cries, and show him how to spread his wings someday. 

You will never proudly show photos of your beautiful grandchildren to all your friends in the winters of your old age, sipping tea by a roaring fire together. 

All that, and more, can and will be yours someday, if you will only look out beyond the haze of pain and misty shadows swathed in darkness, and listen closely. 

If you do, you will hear me calling to you across the chasm. However faint, and however feeble.

Tonight, tomorrow night, and every night afterwards, you will hear my voice. And the more you listen to me, rather than the demons, the stronger my voice and your sword arm will grow, and the weaker they will become

After all, what I call to you is nothing elaborate or complicated.

I merely implore you, with everything in me, to promise me that whatever happens, however dark the darkness grows, no matter how many times you fall while learning to fly, that you will never give in, never give up. 

You can't. 

You mustn't. 

You won't. 

Never ever ever give up. 

Never.