778 words
6 minute read
Well, me and my 15-year-old self need to have some words tonight. Words of love and compassion. Help and hope.
Maybe you need this, too. If so, read on...
Dear 15-Year-Old Me,
You didn't know at the time this picture was taken that you wouldn't be smiling like that much longer, did you?
You had no idea that a mere three months later, you would stand beside your youngest brother, in his high chair, but you would not be smiling because he was cutely messy with cake.
You know why now.
But you didn't then.
It was a Saturday night then, too. On this night so many years ago. We were eating dinner one second. And the next...
I need to tell you something vital. (And your siblings, too, if they read this.)
What happened is not your fault.
It was not on us to keep it together, to keep calm, to keep steady. We were children. No matter what started it? Trust that we were children being children. Trust that adults around us were meant to keep us safe, help us regulate, discuss options that felt fair to us.
It was not on me to try to appeal to them to handle things better. It was not my responsibility to write a note and risk walking back into a powder keg situation because that's how desperate I was to change things. It was not on me to set the example for the adults around me.
I was a child.
We all were.
I know you'll spend months living in fear that someone will find out. I know you'll wish someone just knew...and be terrified of that possibility. Because by now, you've been warned. And warned. And warned.
You'll disclose to one person - a friend - hours away. Eight months later, when you're sure that someone has told - but you're actually in the midst of another crisis - one that terrifies you even more than the previous one - you'll tell again.
But peers.
I know you wanted an adult to know what happened to all of you that night. I know you want them to know the extent of the terror you felt. I know you were convinced that this was the time...the time none of us kids would make it out alive.
I know no adult has ever truly gotten that.
And I want to tell you this:
I am an adult now.
And I know.
I want you to know that I believe you. I have your memories, so in a way, I was there, too. That's how I know you did nothing wrong. None of you did.
Whether you ran, hid, stood frozen, whatever you did?
You lived.
You survived.
And that is the most important thing.
Now that I am grown, I promise to always keep you safe.
Remember that you are loved, beyond measure.
That you are believed, 100%.
That even though nobody came to save you?
You will save you.
You will be your own hero.
Now, I can say, confidently, that you should never have had to be. But you were.
You're still six years away from that right now, but it will happen.
You'll get kicked out and you'll be scared as hell, wondering what you'll do. What will happen to you. You'll move into your own apartment two-and-a-half years later...and as an adult...almost a dozen years after that? You'll finally say "Enough." You will start learning to prioritize your own safety and well-being.
Leaving toxic situations is not as easy as people believe. "Just leave," often does not apply, especially as a disabled person.
 |
| [Image: Me, smiling, standing with my crutches. Age 15] |
Dear 15-Year-Old Me,
You didn't know at the time this picture was taken that you wouldn't be smiling like that much longer, did you?
You had no idea that a mere three months later, you would stand beside your youngest brother, in his high chair, but you would not be smiling because he was cutely messy with cake.
You know why now.
But you didn't then.
It was a Saturday night then, too. On this night so many years ago. We were eating dinner one second. And the next...
I need to tell you something vital. (And your siblings, too, if they read this.)
What happened is not your fault.
It was not on us to keep it together, to keep calm, to keep steady. We were children. No matter what started it? Trust that we were children being children. Trust that adults around us were meant to keep us safe, help us regulate, discuss options that felt fair to us.
It was not on me to try to appeal to them to handle things better. It was not my responsibility to write a note and risk walking back into a powder keg situation because that's how desperate I was to change things. It was not on me to set the example for the adults around me.
I was a child.
We all were.
I know you'll spend months living in fear that someone will find out. I know you'll wish someone just knew...and be terrified of that possibility. Because by now, you've been warned. And warned. And warned.
You'll disclose to one person - a friend - hours away. Eight months later, when you're sure that someone has told - but you're actually in the midst of another crisis - one that terrifies you even more than the previous one - you'll tell again.
But peers.
I know you wanted an adult to know what happened to all of you that night. I know you want them to know the extent of the terror you felt. I know you were convinced that this was the time...the time none of us kids would make it out alive.
I know no adult has ever truly gotten that.
And I want to tell you this:
I am an adult now.
And I know.
I want you to know that I believe you. I have your memories, so in a way, I was there, too. That's how I know you did nothing wrong. None of you did.
Whether you ran, hid, stood frozen, whatever you did?
You lived.
You survived.
And that is the most important thing.
Now that I am grown, I promise to always keep you safe.
Remember that you are loved, beyond measure.
That you are believed, 100%.
That even though nobody came to save you?
You will save you.
You will be your own hero.
Now, I can say, confidently, that you should never have had to be. But you were.
You're still six years away from that right now, but it will happen.
You'll get kicked out and you'll be scared as hell, wondering what you'll do. What will happen to you. You'll move into your own apartment two-and-a-half years later...and as an adult...almost a dozen years after that? You'll finally say "Enough." You will start learning to prioritize your own safety and well-being.
Leaving toxic situations is not as easy as people believe. "Just leave," often does not apply, especially as a disabled person.
(Besides, no one leaves these situations anyway. We escape them.)
We were lucky in that we had family a half-hour walk from us that day in 2003, when we packed two bags and a backpack, took my wheelchair, but left my crutches behind. We were that desperate to get away. Lucky, again, that there was accessible housing nearby. Adult me knows that having these things means we are privileged in a way not many disabled people are.
But because we are, let's live.
Because now? You can be you.
With likes and emotions and safety and love...and all the things you always deserved to have.
You did everything you could.
It wasn't your fault.
It wasn't your fault.
It wasn't your fault.
It wasn't your fault.
It wasn't your fault.
All the love ever,
Grown-Up Me
We were lucky in that we had family a half-hour walk from us that day in 2003, when we packed two bags and a backpack, took my wheelchair, but left my crutches behind. We were that desperate to get away. Lucky, again, that there was accessible housing nearby. Adult me knows that having these things means we are privileged in a way not many disabled people are.
But because we are, let's live.
Because now? You can be you.
With likes and emotions and safety and love...and all the things you always deserved to have.
You did everything you could.
It wasn't your fault.
It wasn't your fault.
It wasn't your fault.
It wasn't your fault.
It wasn't your fault.
All the love ever,
Grown-Up Me
***
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