I looked at you last night and you were chubby and lovely and young, so young, so very very young. I saw in your eyes the hope and possibility but I also saw that terrible, terrible sadness you carried around like a suitcase full of cinderblocks. As lovely and young as you were, baby girl, you were a mess and you were incomplete and you were wrong about so much. I am you, but you are not me yet. If I could go back and tell you how good everything gets you'd think I were crazy, and that's the problem. I've got to cut you loose because your cinderblocks still drag me under when all I want is to keep on swimming. I'll never forget you, but I've got to let you go and let you make those mistakes and let you wait and wait and wait but I promise you that one day, you'll stop waiting.
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I love this post. Beautifully written and wonderfully thoughtful.
This made me tear up. I feel very, very similarly about my seventeen year-old self, so many years later. It's been hard going back to my hometown this last month because I feel like, for the span of time that I'm here, I've regressed from the confident, capable adult to the unhappy, hopeless, bumbling and sad teenager I was for years.
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