An Eleven-Year-Old

A few years ago, I did a writing exercise in which I wrote a letter to my eleven-year-old self. I'm not going to post up what I wrote because the exact words are irrelevant, but I clearly had a lot of animosity toward my eleven-year-old self back then, and I had to wonder why I had been so mad at my younger self. If I wrote a letter to my eleven-year-old  self today, there's no way I could be anything but loving.

Eleven, for me, was a major turning point in my life. Fifth grade (the year I turned eleven) was definitely the climax of all my creativity as a child; I had comic books, plays, movies, TV shows, etc, etc. I was doing everything. It was great! I loved fifth grade.

But, being the climax, everything took a nose dive as fifth grade ended. Eleven was when I started spiraling deeper and deeper into the depression that overtook my life for many years of my life. If you've never experienced depression, rejoice. If you have, then you know what I'm talking about when I say I lost interest in literally everything as time went on. When I wrote the letter to my eleven-year-old self right, I was at the upside-down climax of my depression: the lowest point of all lowest points, but also the beginning of a new direction.

It's been a few years since then. While I don't claim to be 24/7 happy, I am not depression's slave any more and never will be again. Now, when I look back at my eleven-year-old self, I see a little girl, perhaps one of my brother's classmates even, who is about to start the hardest years of her life. How could I write an angry letter to her? How could I blame her for making me who I am? How could I judge her for letting depression sneak up on her and begin the downward spiral? How could I be anything but loving and supportive to a small girl who's life is about to come crumbling down on her?

I don't regret struggling with depression. I don't wish it didn't happen. Sure, there are so many years of my life I wish I could have back, years that could have been so much better if I hadn't had to wrestle with something endlessly stronger than me at all times, but who would I be without that struggle? Where would I be? Would I have learned to stand as I stand today without walking through that hell?

I've spent the past few years struggling to find the strength to at last overcome depression, and what has given me hope is the strength and bravery of an eleven-year-old girl. If I wrote a letter to my eleven-year-old self today, I would only thank her for reminding me that I have strength I know not.