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It wasn’t often that they would get assignments like this. A letter to his younger self, what a joke. It wasn’t like Hitoshi could change what he went through all those years ago, or that the words could have any effect on that scared kid.
But, an assignment is an assignment, so Hitoshi sat at his desk, in his dorm room. Music blasted through in his ears – through headphones, it was four in the morning – and he held a pen in his hand.
How does one start a letter to themself?
Dear me , oh, no, that’s cringy.
Hi from the future, that’s even worse.
Why was he doing this again? Was it even graded? He forgot to ask. He doubted that it was. Could he really hand in another disappointed look for not finishing his homework, though? No, so he would just bullshit his way through this.
Things I wish I could’ve told me.
That works.
What would he even say to himself, though? Would any words even help?
He wasn’t sure if any words would’ve helped. So many people swore that it would get better. It did, sure, but…
Hitoshi still had days where he wanted to curl up around himself, where he snapped at everyone and everything for even getting close. Days where he felt completely numb, too. Or where he was writing notes again, just in case he couldn’t stop himself.
Was it his own fault, that he didn’t fully get better? Was he to blame for the pain he caused himself?
He focused his eyes back onto the paper.
Hey, kid, what you felt wasn’t you being weird, you’re just trans .
That did not work. He probably would’ve cried if someone told him that. Being perceived as even more different? Younger him would consider it a death sentence.
You’re not selfish for needing help .
That… that worked, even if Hitoshi didn’t really believe that all the time. Maybe if someone told him years ago, he wouldn’t be struggling with it now.
When did he started taking this stupid letter seriously?
Did he still need help? Would he be selfish for taking it, when he wasn’t as sick as he used to be? One doesn’t go to the doctor for a simple cold, right?
But what if that cold escalated into something worse? Would he need more help, then?
You’re not selfish for needing help. You’re a kid.
Was he still a kid? Or did he pass that phase as soon as he outgrew his childhood room? Did he stop being a kid when he took the posters down, put the stuffed animals on a shelf – he could never throw them away – instead of in his bed?
He looked at the paper again.
Please, don’t blame yourself. Put down the blade and let others help clean your wounds; both mentally and physically.
Wow, he was getting poetic.
You’re not to blame for others' failure; you never were.
God, he should start believing that himself. He knew that people failed him before, hell, if people just listened and helped him, he would have been doing a whole lot better now.
But… they didn’t. Or well, people started helping too late. When he had plans already, notes written in pen, every word from the depth of his heart. He was told that if he had letters to write, he had reasons to stay. Hitoshi wasn’t sure if that was true, though.
He thought about it a lot, how life would be for others with him gone. Maybe it would hurt people for a little bit. But their lives would be better without him, Hitoshi thought.
But he had also gotten so far, if he gave up now, was everything a waste? Every minute spent training, every second spent alone in his room, hiding from his own brain. If he died now, whether that be by his own hands or someone else's, would all of that be a waste?
We’re still here, which is surprising, I know. But, it would be a waste to die now. We fought so hard, suffered too much to die now.
Ugh. This was such a sappy assignment. Yeah, so everything's sunshines and rainbows now! Yipee! Did they expect him to write something like that?
But that would be lying. If he could talk to his younger self, would he lie? If he would’ve figured it out… Fuck, this was stupid.
I wish I could say that the change would be immediate; one day to the other you’ll feel like your skin belongs to you again .
He wrote the words down the way his brain spat them out. It was… somewhat comforting, he supposed. Putting his brain onto paper, to make sense of what it was saying.
It doesn’t work like that, sadly. I feel… somewhat better, though.
And he did. It was somewhat better.
We still have shitty days, of course. Sometimes I wish I could crawl out of my body and hide somewhere else. Somewhere where I’m not me .
But, that feeling is less frequent, really.
Hitoshi still hid sometimes, when everything got too much. When the voices of others felt like they would rip apart his eardrums, where a simple touch spooked him.
Days where his body felt wrong, his bones ached and creaked in ways where it felt like it would’ve been better without them.
Days where he didn’t speak, where his voice felt broken. Like his throat was filled with sandpaper, refusing to push out the words he wanted to say.
I know you don’t have the words to describe that feeling yet, or maybe you don’t want to. Just know that I have the words now, I know what I’m feeling .
Maybe he still didn’t want to describe the feeling. It was like there was something rotting in his ribcage; not his heart, that worked just fine. Maybe it worked too well. He felt too much. He felt too little. It was like a strange mix of everything and nothing.
Could he find someone else to blame for that, so that he didn’t pin it all on himself? Would that be selfish?
You’re not weird for feeling it, you know? You’re not alone in it.
Somehow, you’re never alone. There’s always help.
Hitoshi sighed as he stared at the paper. If he stared hard enough, maybe he would believe the words he was writing down. Maybe he would be able to believe the good things people told him just as easy as he believed the bad things.
He knew that he couldn’t. It wasn’t easy not believing what everyone had told him for years. He knew, deep down, that he wasn’t fundamentally bad. No one was. But that didn’t make the words he was told for years suddenly gain less meaning.
I still struggle with self harm, the feeling that I’m wrong fundamentally.
But, I’m trying to be less angry, to treat everyone around me with the love and respect that I lack for myself.
I think about what we did a lot. About how it shaped me and everything.
It’s pretty cool. I still feel sad a lot, though.
He stared at a single wet spot on his paper. When did he start crying?
We have friends now, too. It’s a nice feeling to not feel hated by everyone. It’s still hard to accept, though.
Sometimes I still wonder if they actually like me or just pity me.
Hitoshi knew that was an awful thought. He trusted his friends, really. He trusted them to have his back in battle, trusted them to help him. Yet he couldn’t stop that feeling that they secretly hated him.
I’m sorry for what you have to go through to get here .
He looked at the paper, roughly wiping his eyes with his sleeve. The letter wasn’t much, but Hitoshi hoped it was good enough.
Things I wish I could've told me,
You're not selfish for needing help. You're a kid.
Please, don't blame yourself. Put down the blade and let others clean your wounds; both mentally and physically. You're not to blame for others' failure; you never were.
We're still here, which is surprising, I know. But, it would be a waste to die now. We fought so hard, suffered too much to die now.
I wish I could say that change would be immediate; one day to the other you'll feel like your skin belongs to you again.
It doesn't work like that, sadly. I feel... somewhat better, though.
We still have shitty days, of course. Sometimes I wish I could crawl out of my body and hide somewhere else. Somewhere where I'm not me.
But, that feeling is less present, really.
I know you don't have the words to descrive that feeling yet, or maybe you don't want to. Just know that I have the words now, I know what I'm feeling.
You're not weird for feeling it, you know? You're not alone in it.
Somehow, you're never alone. There's always help.
I still struggle with self harm, the feeling that I’m wrong fundamentally.
But, I’m trying to be less angry, to treat everyone around me with the love and respect that I lack for myself.
I think about what we did a lot. About how it shaped me and everything.
It’s pretty cool. I still feel sad a lot, though.
We have friends now, too. It's a nice feeling to not be hated by everyone. It's still hard to accept, though.
Sometimes I still wonder if they actually like me, or just pity me.
I'm sorry for what you have to go through to get here.
He folded the paper in half and stuck it in his bag. It was not much, but it was something.
Hitoshi was kind of thankful for this assignment; his head felt less chaotic now.