should i care about betraying a mentally ill teenager

When I was a teenager I wanted to die. I wanted other things as well; I wanted to transition, to move out, to be in a loving relationship, to look cooler, to be famous, the list goes on. But predominantly, I wanted to be dead, and I’m not sure if achieving any of the other goals would be any consolation to teenage me if they found out we’re still alive.

I grew up convinced that I wouldn’t make it to 18, let alone 23; that, sooner or later, I would pull the proverbial trigger. Not that it’s a particularly original experience. And despite still being chronically, base-level, (mostly) passively suicidal throughout most of my adulthood, I now have a pretty strong belief that I will make it out alive, which makes the world of difference. Somewhat ironically, one of the most helpful (but also one of hardest to implement) things that I’ve learned living this way is that you simply cannot let yourself think about yourself as someone who will eventually kill themself.

With all the talk about your ‘inner child’ and whether or not younger-you would be proud of current-you, I always come to the conclusion that I’m actually not sure. I’m glad that I’m still alive. There’s so many things I would’ve missed out on; despite all the bad parts I also sometimes get hit with the realisation that I’m literally living the dream of younger me. Even if just for a day, or an hour, I get to experience the most wonderful feelings, and places, and people, and I’ve made peace with the fact that I might always have a little piece of me in the back of my mind saying that I’d rather be dead sometimes. But 15 or 17 year old me is not my current self, and I also have to make amends with the fact that they would feel betrayed. At the very least, they’d think I’m cringe for surrounding myself with all those corny “everything will work out” slogans and sincerely trying to believe them.

I think they’d feel like their struggle was invalidated. By choosing not to die I took away what was supposed to be the ultimate proof of their pain. The proof that could not be swept under the rug or eventually downplayed as teenage angst as the years go on. (Funnily enough, now I wish it all could be closed neatly in a chapter of my life instead of having a diagnosis that will hang over my head forever.) But that younger part of me is in some way scared their feelings simply didn’t matter. If a tree falls in a forest and stuff. 

I jump to judging my younger self, deeming them selfish and self-centred. Self-harming in visible spots and posting dramatic vent tweets just to then be ashamed if anyone brought those up. But the truth is, I was a kid who desperately needed to not want to die. Not to mention those are habits I still slip into and things I wouldn’t judge anyone else for, definitely not a teenager.

Younger me hated my parents and the doctors and therapists for doing everything they could to keep me alive, and I can’t take that away from her, she had every right to hate the ways in which they did it. But now I’m simply not honouring my younger self’s wish to die and it’s a weird conflict of interest because I am simultaneously doing the best thing I could do for us – making our life better one day at a time. 

I don’t have a neat conclusion, it’s just something I wanted to let myself explore through writing. I’ve become both kinder and stricter to myself, kind of trying to be the best parent/older sibling I can to myself. And sometimes that means letting younger versions of me throw a tantrum about the fact we’re still alive.