My dearest self,

Thank you. I don’t say that to you enough, but truly, thank you. It may be difficult to admit, but you’re one of the strongest people I know.

You have gone through things that no one should ever have to go through. Those things hardened you…but they also softened you. They made you who you were meant to be-a resilient, vibrant, passionate woman who does what feels right for her at every turn, and doesn’t allow others to dictate any part of her life. A woman who thinks and feels deeply, strives for beauty and authenticity, and gives what she can when she can. I’m proud of this woman. She belongs.

The thick layer of hardness that covers you and protects you goes down so deep it’s scraping your bones. Some perceive this as you being uncaring, rude, or standoffish. But you know yourself- you know that the true issue is that you care about everything too much. So much that it hurts you, often. And that hurt has accumulated over the years into this hardened exterior. You’re tough. You can handle yourself. You’re sturdy on your own two feet and you’re not scared to face whatever those feet lead you to.

Those who appreciate your exterior also recognize your interior. Squeezed beneath the bones into the very core of you is a distinct softness- a softness that helps you to understand things, helps you to help others, and helps you to be the very best version of yourself. This is the part of you that cares so deeply about things that you can physically feel it-a palpable ache radiating from your core.

The exterior protects and analyzes while the interior feels and guides. A perfectly balanced set. Together, they make you flexible. Pliable. Adaptable. Durable. You’re built to last, endure, survive, and thrive.

While you always survive, you don’t always thrive-at least, it doesn’t always seem like it. And that’s okay-that’s how life is set up for us. But truly, deep down, even when it doesn’t feel like you’re thriving, you are. Simply by persevering and pushing through the bullshit, you are thriving. Simply by allowing yourself to still be vulnerable when it matters, with the people who it matters with, despite the accumulated hurt, you’re thriving. You have created a life for yourself where it’s okay to just exist. To just be you. A life where you don’t always need to look over your shoulder. Where it’s okay to relax and live moment by moment. It took a long time to get to this life, but you did it. So again, for this beautiful life, thank you.
You must be exhausted; it’s okay to rest now. You’re going to be just fine.

Love,

For you-

I wanted to tell you about the decision that was made slowly. Made over the course of a couple semesters of sleepless nights that I filled with colors and unique faces, while smoke curled around me like infinite halos and various mediums stained my clothes. Life was a blur of coffee, shitty parking spots, endless ideas, negativity, and more coffee… and I remember constantly feeling like I was drowning.

The first couple of semesters of college were a lot like that time I visited Tim Burton’s LACMA exhibit on Halloween night. There was a collected presence of awe enveloping every person there, with hushed whispers and pointed fingers wherever you turned. You could feel a sort of beautiful artistic darkness peaking your curiosity and encouraging your creativity- just daring you to get off your ass and pick up your instrument (you know you want to). That was exactly what my first taste of college felt like. The mixture of uneasiness and excitement; a palpable admiration consistently pouring out of me. My curiosity peaked, my creativity raging, I picked up several instruments.

Artistic instruments are similar to instruments of torture. Both will cause you to marvel; both will cause you to scream. Tools that can be picked up as a result of intense passion or emotion; used to satisfy, control, release, create, and destroy. Both can be difficult, meticulous things- but some will find that they have quite a talent for it. I am not one of those people, and I learned this the hard way.

I like to say that I am an artist of mind, not of talent. The visions that I get and the ideas that my mind creates are masterpieces that I’m sure Tim Burton himself would point at and whisper about. However, when whichever instrument my right hand picks up meets the negative space, it’s as if my brain isn’t sending the correct messages to my hand, causing my brilliant vision to fall flat. I justified trying for an art degree because me “wanting it badly enough” mixed with learning and progressing through college art classes was sure to help me close the gap between me and the truly talented artists around me…right? Wrong.

I truly tried, and I gave my classes the absolute best effort I possibly could. Unfortunately, my absolute best wasn’t enough. My life was a chaotic watercolor blend; the kind that hurts your eyes if you stare at it too long. A tangle of fading friendships, betrayal, assault, experiments, and a rawness that cannot be understood unless you were there. I gave every aspect of life my very best, and continuously fell short. I was drowning in this poisonous concoction of mental health issues, social awakenings, and never being quite enough. The knowledge of not being enough ate at me quickly; attacked me, really, using instruments of torture I never thought possible.

I had to accept the fact that although I had wanted to be a professional artist since I was a small girl, and even though I was trying and practicing and learning, it still was not enough.

And just like that, I’m standing on the balcony of the art department building, blood dotting my jeans all the way through while the watercolors staining my fingers flirt with my lips as I inhale the nicotine that I don’t even really like, and release it back out into the night. I’m crying. Tears and snot awaken the dormant watercolors, leaving stains on the butt. My breath catches on an inhale of smoke, causing the toxic stick to fall while my lungs fight for air. When I’m done coughing, I’m left gasping, not enough air finding me. Things go dark for a while, and eventually I come to- sitting in the corner of the balcony clutching myself, every inch of me clammy, hair sticking to my face.

It took me a while to realize I was developing a panic disorder. It took even longer for me to fully face the fact that an art degree was something that I needed to let go of. This turning point marked the end of my adolescence, because being honest with yourself is a step toward adulthood. This step led me to begin nourishing a part of me that was always there, but sometimes forgotten. The medium that I was always naturally decent at, but didn’t always accept as art because it wasn’t as visually appealing to the eye.

Here I am, over a decade later, utilizing my chosen instrument while my hair remains out of my face and my muscles remain relaxed. And while I may never be the absolute best at it, I am certainly good enough.

Love,