"To the person I will be when the depressionisn’t quite so heavy, please tell me you..."

“To the person I will be when the depression

isn’t quite so heavy, please tell me you remember

the way the stars in

middle-of-nowhere New Mexico

left you sobbing. Remember

all the beautiful moments that

softened the heartbreak.

Remember that you have kissed

more best friends than you haven’t.

Remember how safe you felt with them.

Maybe now, you don’t feel like you have to

give everyone your body to be worthy of their time,

but please remember the weight

of sharing a bed when you are at

your loneliest. Remember how these people

carry parts of you that you were afraid

to carry for yourself. I hope whoever

is warming your bed, now,

is as gentle with you

as they were.

For the day when I have it all figured out:

I don’t want to know the ending.

As tempting as it would be

to reach forward into the future and ask

if I ever find a time when I am okay,

I don’t need to know all of the answers.

My story is unwinding like a spool of thread.

I lost track of where I started–

left it back somewhere in the minotaur maze

that my life became after the depression.

If I chase my life all the way to the end of the thread

I will be left with nothing. And I don’t know

how much I believe in palm reading,

but I’ve got a long life-line–

broken with uneven heartache but

still going.

A psychic once told me that

I had seen death

three times.

If only she knew how often death

made an appearance in my bathroom mirror,

how I greet him as casually as an estranged neighbor.

If only she knew how I learned

to turn him away.

Dear person I will be when I am not

this–

I’m coming.

Save a seat

for me.”

- A CYNIC’S LETTER TO HER FUTURE SELF (part 2) by Ashe Vernon
(part 1)