I Wrote a Letter to a Past Bryan...

A few years ago, I started to feel like I owed a former, depressed version myself an apology. I didn't have a purpose, or a plan in mind, but this is the outcome.

Hey, Three Years Ago Bryan. It’s me, Future Bryan. First things first, I know you’re in a bad way right now and I just want you to know how sorry I am. I’m sorry that you’re so devastatingly, earth-shatteringly sad right now, and I’m sorry that I didn’t do anything to help you sooner. I’m sorry that I enabled you by telling you that this is just who you are and will always be. I’m sorry you think that putting yourself and your body through so much turmoil is the only thing that makes you special, and likeable, and funny, and acceptable. I know it goes against everything you’re feeling right now, but you deserve better. You’re scared, and depressed, and lonely, and broken, and you’re wearing that hopelessness around your neck, almost like a badge of honor at this point, so you can collect more and more of it, in the form of bottles of booze and bags of blow, and empty approval from people on a barstool who don’t give a shit about what you look or feel like tomorrow. And I know it feels so heavy right now that you’re positive you’re drowning. I’m so sorry.

To make it up to you, I’m here to tell you that things will get better. And not three YEARS from now; Three MONTHS from now. You’re so close. Just hang in there a little longer. You’re days away from realizing that alcohol isn’t a personality. Blacking out is not a character trait that defines you. People will still like you without a comically large shot of Rumpleminz in your hand. People worrying about you is not the same as people caring about you, but somewhere along the way the lines blurred, and you feel so alone that the attention feels nice, even if it’s the wrong kind. You are not committed to the lifestyle you chose at 17 years old. There was no contract.  You didn’t sign any paperwork. I was there. 

You’re going to find out that the loneliness, and the fear, and the anxiety need to be dealt with, and not thrown in the back of the closet with all the other shit you’ve been avoiding, like growing up, or telling the truth, or CLEANING YOUR GODDAMN BEDROOM. JESUS. Those feelings aren’t going anywhere, and often times they’re going to hurt so fucking badly that giving up will seem reasonable because you can’t just turn your brain off with a 48-hour bender, but I promise you can handle it. You’re stronger than you think you are, and you’re THIS close to finding all of that out. 

It’s 2020. We don’t need to talk about what’s going on in the world, right now. You’ve got enough on your plate. The world is certainly not on fire, and we’re all doing GREAT. Right guys? ::wink wink:: In the next couple weeks, you’re going to do your almost daily routine now: wake up, walk to the bathroom, look in the mirror, and tell yourself over and over, like a reverse mantra, that you’re a piece of shit and you hate yourself, but I really need you to know that I love you. And your family loves you. And your friends love you. You are a citizen of this earth and you matter. You’re not lost; you just took the longest, most irresponsible, inconvenient, and painful detour you could fathom, but I swear you’re almost home.