Notes to Self

by Emilie Pine

Finally, I write this because I can’t time travel. For a long time I have had the recurring and sentimental wish that I could go back to the early 1990s and just hold on to my younger self, tightly, the way she needed, and not pay attention to her protestations that she was ‘fine’. Because I know what I would say to her. I would embrace her and I would tell her that I know she is lonely, that I know she feels lost, that I know she feels worthless. And then, because she is not me, and because she is me, I would assure her that there is something about her, something amazing, something lovable, something special, something beautiful, something fragile, something strong, something worth fighting for.

I have always wanted to be liked. In this, I am no different to other women. Women want to be likeable. Women are supposed to be likeable. Women are judged when they are not likeable enough. But being likeable, for all its social desirability, held us back at work. We ended up so busy doing all the pastoral care, and all the boring paperwork, and all the millions of unwanted jobs, that we never seemed to have time to ask for recognition. And, if we did ask, we were held back again.

But how many times can you avert a crisis before you admit it’s all one long crisis?

But my mental health, it turns out, is my responsibility. I probably don’t need to tell you that, but I did need to tell myself. And once I realised that, I wondered why I would ever leave it in the hands of strangers to decide my value.

I am afraid. But I am doing it anyway.