Dear past fifteen year old me,
I'm not going to tell you "It's going get better" and "one day this will all be over" and "one day you'll be glad you kept on living". For one thing, I know you wouldn't believe me. You'd say that I don't understand what it's like. But also, I couldn't say any of those things and really, truly mean it. Yes, there are better times, but there are still really shitty times. They don't go away. And nothing is over.
Some wounds might scar and the pain dull, but they will still hurt, and sometimes they will break open unexpectedly and flood you with agony, so that you start wondering why you put all that effort into trying to heal them in the first place. There will be new wounds, and there will be hidden ones, injuries that you didn't even realise were there. One day you will notice them, and same as a scratch that only starts itching when you've seen it, they won't stop hurting from that moment on.
There will be moments - days, weeks, months - when you are glad you kept on living. And there'll be moments you wish you hadn't.
You might ask yourself at this point: But is it worth it? Are the good times, the happy times, worth living through the bad ones? Is the pain worth enduring?
The clear answer I can give you to this is: I don't know. I'm still in the middle of things, I still haven't figured out where this is going, if I'm going to come out alive on the other side - if there even is an "other side".
But this much I can tell you: There are moments, when I am so thankful to you, past self, for being strong, for carrying on, so that I can now experience all these things.
There are things in store for you that you might not think possible right now. There are lazy sunday afternoons in bed with your husband. There are books with your name on them. There is laughing until you cry with the people who love you. There is dancing until your head spins and your knees are week. There are sunny days with people who would die for you. And there's a hell of a lot of good tea.
Love, me.