A Letter to the Unnecessary KidPosted: June 2, 2015
You, hiding behind the plastic plant in the corner of the dining room. Yes, you. Breathe. Get up. Wash your face. You are six. It is not supposed to be this difficult for you. You are not supposed to feel burdensome. None of it is your fault. Their fight is not your fault. Go. Read your favorite book. Pretend you are the President of your own country living on the sixtieth floor of the world’s most important building. Never touch the jacket that caused the fight. Do not be ashamed, even for a second, of your body. Of who you are. Your shoulders are big for a reason, you are taller than the other kids for a reason. Your destiny is not theirs, just as theirs is not yours. This will make sense over time. I love you, I love you, I love you.
You, hiding away in the bathroom. Yes, you. Breathe. Get up. Wash your face. You are nine. It is not your fault they do not believe you. It happened. And it will hurt for a while. For a while, you will be ashamed. For a while, you will feel unclean. For a while, you will hate yourself. But you will be okay. You will do it all by yourself, and you will be okay. You will come out braver, fiercer. This will make you resilient. You will have to keep it to yourself, and you will have to act like he is the honest one. Do not wince. Do not cringe. I promise, you will be okay. I love you, I love you, I love you.
You, hiding beneath a pile of dirty laundry to avoid them. Yes, you. Breathe. Get up. Wash your face. You are twelve. Your victory does not mean less if others do not celebrate with you. You did good! No, you did great! Stop making excuses for them. Stop looking to them for validation. Family is supposed to care. Blood does not make them your family. If they do not care, they are not your family. Stop expecting love to grow in barren hearts. Focus on you. It will all pay off. I promise. You will love yourself enough, one day. Enough for none of this to matter. Or at least, enough for all of this to hurt much less. Find the God they are always talking about. I love you, I love you, I love you.
You, hiding in the bathroom during lunch. Yes, you. Breathe. Get up. Wash your face. You are fifteen. Stop cutting yourself. Stop hurting yourself. There are plenty of other people doing that for you. So, stop. It is not healthy. It is not romantic. It is not even poetic. Stop. Learn to let go. Your friends are not right for you. Your music is not right for you. Your clothes are not right for you. Your food is not right for you. Do it for you. Stop doing it for them. None of this will matter. You are going to grow, the sickness will go away, your lungs will be lighter; you will be so brilliant! But you have to let go, you have to take a step back and let yourself heal. You will break if you try any harder. This fight is not worth it. You are. Work on you. I love you, I love you, I love you.
You, smiling at the sky. Yes, you. You are twenty now. I told you! You have endured loss, and sickness, and resistance, but look at you now! You found Love! You found Faith! You found God!
You found you. I told you!
You are not unnecessary, kid. You have grown. You made it so far, all on your own. You are the top of all cheese! The queen of all mosquitoes! The song of the sun, the Brightest secret. I love you, I love you, I love you.
Eman Waseem Cheema is a terrible parallel-parker, top cheese and queen mosquito. She studies Ethics, Law and Society at the University of Toronto, with minors in Philosophy and Gender Studies, and writes poetry from time to time at http://www.emaaanc.tumblr.com
Follow her on Twitter @emaaanc