Dear younger me:

You don't know me, but I know you, though I've only recently gotten to a deep enough level to be able to understand you and the choices you have made.
You'll never read this letter, though doing so would have changed the direction of your life. But I'm going to read it to you anyway, because you deserve space for what you've been through.

I know you're trying really hard to belong to him. Because you want to belong somewhere, anywhere at this point.
You are adrift and the ocean is a great, big, terrible place. You fear that if you stop treading the water for a single second you will be pulled under and drown. Cold. And alone.
I'm very sorry to say that you're right.

The place you are in isn't safe and you are right in thinking that you aren't wanted. Because it was never about you, the you I am speaking to, the you that you only allow select few to see.
Prairie said it in that show you will return to over and over in the years to come, “Those who want power will always try to control those who truly possess it.”
But you don't see it as power. You see it as weakness. A burden. Something in your chest, your fingers, and your brain that itches and no matter how you might boil that precious brain of yours, it simply does not go away.
But he wants it. He adores it. He wants to keep it in his life badly enough that he would deal with you in order to do so.
You are not a burden to be dealt with, although you carry the heavy burden of unrealized potential.

You don't remember right now, but you used to be a very happy child. You would stare at the sunshine sparkling on tropical waves and smile secret little smiles between you and your first lover. The sea. She would make your angel dance, bounce, rock you to sleep on warm spring nights, the most tolerable of the seasons. No matter how chaotic or unstable the days might get, her sound was right there by your head at the end of every day. And sometimes when things were peaceful enough around noon, you were alone with her song as you napped on the green canvas of the sail cover.
You arrived at a different island, one far colder, blanketed in snow for a good portion of the year. But you found new sources of warmth. You ran until you could feel your lungs expanding in the prickly stretch of your chest, you hung upside down from every playground structure that would allow you to, you played sports with the boys while they remained oblivious to gendered lines. You learned how to bundle up in layers instead of tanning your skin to that caramel brown. You had to trade swimming for walks and the ocasional ski trip, because chlorine is a thing of the devil and the smell is unbearable.
When your lover went away, you did your best to become accustomed to the sound of dogs howling in the middle of the night, children screaming, adults arguing, and nothing at all in rare moments of synchronized neighborly peace. But sleep got difficult until you discovered the ultimate warmth. Rosa Oscura, really her given name was Sakura, but Don Barral had a terrible case of hearing loss, so she was renamed via misinterpretation. Something you are starting to understand right now. She was feral and unafraid to claw anyone that got near her. A lost case, doomed to starve on the streets since she had served her purpose of birthing cute kittens for the neighbor kids to play with, until they inevitably met the same fate. But you were patient with her. You had read the little prince, so you treated her as you would a fox. Bringing food and hanging out in as much stillness as you could stand until it got too cold or you got too hungry. And she eventually started to trust you. Only you. And you became so necessary to her that she would climb your balcony when your parents denied every plea for adoption. But she was yours so in a truly unhinged fashion, she started to give birth to the second set of kittens right in your bed, and your parents couldn't keep you separated any longer. I'm so sorry you were forced to go to school instead of seeing the last 1.5 kittens being born. The youngest, Simba, was your favorite after all. I'm so sorry you didn't get to keep him and Rosa together.
I could keep going. I will keep going, but for now, that's as much as I remember clearly enough to tell you with complete confidence that it actually happened.
I'm not sure about a lot of things. Whether or not they happened. Whether or not those specific words were said. Feelings linger, but the details fade away.

I'm sorry I didn't keep better track. There are so many journals I've found over the past few months. Attempts at chronicling a life that was going by unnoticed, but I didn't do a very good job. Still, no use crying over spilled milk, instead I will make a new batch. I will write down every little thing I manage to remember, and I will write new, shinier memories. So that if I ever lose track of you again, there will be a trail of breadcrumbs that leads me right back here. To a moment where I no longer feel ashamed. And loneliness is not nearly as scary as not knowing what I want to do next.
We're playing piano now. I know you've always wanted to since grandmama slapped your hands away and said you were not good enough to keep practicing. There are people who watch you mess up on the keys over and over and stay to watch. They tell you they're proud of you when I'm not strong enough to do so myself. And they're so very kind. Because you are so very kind. And you deserve to be treated the way you treat those around you.

Thank you for holding on through the next 7 years of hell on earth. You're the reason I'm still here. And I will always be grateful to you. Thank you so so much.