Happy 20 vulnerable years of your birth and sigh for Sylvia Plath isn’t alive, she would had turned 88 today. Sigh! again.
First off, let me start by saying that it’s okay to feel like you aren’t doing as well as you are supposed to. You couldn’t be a doctor for Baba and not even an artist for Amu yet. You couldn’t buy those expensive parkas that you’ve been wanting for a long time, you couldn’t visit Pampore or any other place that you’ve wanted to go, you couldn’t do something so so extraordinary. So if you need to take a second to breathe, to cry, to put your head down, stare out a window or go for a walk. Do that. Cry out so so loud, then laugh hard and then find a good post for your Instagram (You know that’s more than just beautiful).
Thank God for everything that you are fortuned with, take a look at all the beautiful things around you, and be stress free for just a moment, in fact for more than just a moment. Think how beautiful you are and think how beautifully you’re out of that terrible mental disease that’d been killing you from past four years. And think how beautiful that illness has made you. Think and then thank for everything.
You’ve changed. You entered this year on uncertain feet, without any direction, and you leave this year with more scars and more purposes. You’ve been humbled. You’ve opened your heart and had it crushed, opened your heart and had it seen. You’ve seen vulnerability and betrayal, grief and broken spirits. You’ve cried in a doctor’s office and alone on your bedroom floor. You’ve sat in a therapist’s office and heard her say this will probably last your whole life. You cried again and you let go.
You’ve lost much, but you’ve also gained. You learned to ask questions. You learned to be honest. You learned to tell someone you need help. You learned the importance of being present and the importance of listening. You learned about yourself—that who you are is OK. That all of the emotions and questions and fears, all of the stories and passions and dreams—all of these are yours to own. They are not simply symptoms of an illness. You are more than any illness. It does not own you. Talking too much doesn’t make you ill, crying too much doesn’t either. Your desire to get married soon doesn’t make you an overrated adult and your desire to visit Pampore doesn’t make you stupid. In fact all these things from never shutting your mouth to craving for a visit to Pampore; they make you even more beautiful.
You’ve learned not to blame yourself for the things that aren’t you. The obsessive double-triple-quadruple checks. The irrational thought patterns. The tears that come and go without reason. The hollow days. The tired days. The shaky, sweaty days. The incessant moments of panic rising up out of nowhere, tackling you when you aren’t looking. You’ve learned that the rants and the downhill tumbles aren’t what define you. People who’ve left don’t define you, either. How you respond to their absence doesn’t define you. Hope defines you. Love defines you. You define you.
Brace yourself; your twenties are going to be hard. You think right now the future looks like a mix of exotic travel and thrilling jobs at various newspapers and magazines. But you’ll stay anywhere and half of those magazines will have folded by the time you are twenty-five. Instead there will be lots of pitching stories and following up and chasing down freelance checks, and sitting at your desk drumming your fingers, wrestling with things like mortality, the societal expectations of adulthood and your own dueling senses of entitlement, inferiority and fear. And woaahh, it’s in your twenties that you’ll get married.
You’ll do good, you’ll have your reportage for so many newspapers, maybe someday ‘The New York Times’. You’ll make Amu and Baba and everyone so so proud. You’ll learn to cook good food and you’ll visit all the places you’ve ever wanted to visit. You’ll click pictures with all the people you admire, and you’ll buy that Red Parka soon. You’ll earn enough, enough to buy yourself a car. And you’ll earn enough, enough to face your Lord in the world hereafter. You’ll do good and you’ll love yourself more and more.
You deserve the world and even a little more. You are smart. You are beautiful. You are enough. You are everything. You are all.
Do you know how Sylvia Plath died. She had clinical Depression and she put her head in an oven and turned on the gas — but, listen don’t ever try to kill yourself. Let yourself die when it’s time to. You’re getting closer to your end, so be more beautiful and more and more of Sylvia Plath. May you be as beautiful as her.
(I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart. I am, I am, I am.)