A letter from Jan 29, 2025

Dear FutureMe, Picture this. It’s 8 PM on a Tuesday. You’ve had your third headache in the last week. You’re in bed, staring at a screen which may have something to do with the headaches. You went grocery shopping today, you many not financially recover from that. You are trying to hide your love for veggie straws from your family and friends so you don’t seem like a freaking dork. Last week you drove for the first time. You didn’t die, and you got home without using a GPS. After 25 years of living in the same area, you finally have some idea of how to get home from not so distant places. It’s stupid cold. January has felt like 9 years. There are three cats around but none of them want to be around you. You are procrastinating redying the roots of your hair, and it’s looking rough. You look like the printer ran out of ink. Being 25 & at home feels like the worst parts of being a teenager with all the bonus worst parts of being an adult. Right now you feel okay. Last week you were threatening to carve out your suicide note with a butter knife when your pen stopped working. I hope that’s funny in 3 years. Because it’s funny now. Last week it definitely was not. Last week you cried a lot. You cornered a coworker & complained about how your life is turning out. You feel like you’re doing what you are supposed to for the moment, but it is absolutely not what you are meant to do. In general, you are losing hope that things will ever turn out good. You feel that you will not be someone who gets to do anything special with their life. Obviously you hope you are wrong, but there is a weariness & doubt that is always there. It clings to everyday life like a bad tan line. You defined the word weary for 1st graders today, “Tired, but not just in your body. Tired in your soul.” This felt a bit heavy when you realized they might recognize that trait in their teacher. So you did what every person unqualified to deal with kids does, get out some candy & change the subject. Right now your only plan for the future is to get out of Ohio. Your main hope though, one you haven’t really said out loud, is that it isn’t too late for things to work out. That things will go surprisingly well. That you’ll feel like you again. I hope you’re having a good day. I hope your coffee hits just right. I hope wherever you are the weather isn’t stupid. I hope weariness is a distant thought. I hope you’re okay, or better than okay.