Dear Self,
It’s me, the older version of you.
I think it’s time for an honest real talk. This letter isn’t about judging, shaming or blaming you.
You do too much of that, already. No, this is different. This letter is about caution.
At a very young age,
you will make some friends, some dangerous, bad friends.
Their names are drugs and alcohol.
Because of these friends, your life will be become a rollercoaster of bars, vomit, tears and sex.
There are nights you will curl up in a little ball of bone and skin because your lifestyle will reduce your once healthy weight to skin and bones. Those nightmares you have will make it incapable for you to sleep by yourself so you run into the arms of anyone, strangers, willing to have you.
By 32, you will be homeless, addicted and completely lost, completely broken.
One night out, on the floor of a toilet in popular bar along Kisementi, you just sit there, in your own vomit, watching your tears hit the floor and think,
“What a mess. What a disgusting mess I have become.”
You look back on your life and vaguely remember your dreams.
You remember innocence, when you weren’t waking up trying to remember whom you’d lied to, or what you’d done the night before.
Three words keep rotating over and over in your head,
“ God, help me. “
And He does.
You put aside your pride and ask for help.
You work hard with the tools you learned at the recovery center and even though you fail sometimes, you never give up. As I write this, I am proud to say we have never given up.
We get married at 40 and are blessed with a little bundle of joy called Ruth.
And you know the most important lesson we teach Ruth?
It’s to never ever give up.
I have to stop here for now. But take heart young one.
Or as the creator of this platform always says,
“hang onto hope.”
Love,
Brenda.
If you or someone you know needs help, please call this confidential support line for assistance.
