I was an avid history student at school. I loved learning about the First Fleet, the Pyjama Girl mystery, JFK, music through the decades, the Vietnam war, Indigenous Australia and of course, civilisations throughout ancient history. I also enjoyed art history, topping my art class in art theory and being offered a place at university in an art history course. So I thought I’d have lots to write about here. Lots of places I’d like to visit in history.
But I only want to go back to one place – my childhood between the ages of around four to 18.
I want to tell my younger self that my life is going to be ok. That I am going to be someone. Someone more than the bullies told me I’d be and the doubters expected of me. That I will be more than they ever could.
I want to tell my younger self that looks aren’t everything. That I will influence people through just being myself. That I don’t have to change. That people will love me for me.
I want to tell my younger self that this illness isn’t doomsday. That a suicidal thought shouldn’t be an option. That I will use my experiences to help people. And that I’ll lead a pretty good life. I’ll have fun and see bands and write and cook and have lots of friends and shop a lot.
I want to tell my younger self that I will find someone who loves me – maybe more than one someone, and even if he is a douchebag, even if I’m still single aged 29, someone will look past my illness and see beauty.
I want to tell my younger self that I will be a success. Even though I’ve never been chosen to lead anything by my school peers, I will be a leader. I will have a good job, live independently, be tertiary qualified, receive awards and I will be a published and respected writer.
That’s the time I’d travel back to. 1985 to 1999. Not to experience those things again, but to tell my younger self that I’m worthy.