Dear Little Me — I See You Now

To the boy nobody knew was hurting, I wish I could sit beside you for a little while. Not to warn you about everything that's coming. God knows there's enough of that. Not to tell you how to live your life differently or explain all the mistakes you're going to make. I'd just like to sit beside you. Maybe on your bed late at night, when the house is quiet and everybody thinks you're sleeping. Or out in the yard, watching you stare off into nowhere, lost in one of those worlds you disappear into inside your head. I'd like to ask you something nobody ever thought to ask. Are you really okay? And I'd like you to know that you don't have to say yes. I remember you. I remember the bicycles, the football games, the friends, and the laughter. I remember how much you loved being somebody people noticed. How good it felt when they cheered for you, when they called you Dr. Death, when you could be the toughest kid on the field. But I remember the quiet, too. The strange sadness that would come when nothing was wrong. The feeling that you were somehow disappointing somebody, even when you were doing everything right. I remember how you could be surrounded by people and still feel alone. And I remember how confusing that was. Because you had a good life, didn't you? You had people who loved you. You had things other kids would have been grateful for. You had friends and adventures and more than a few reasons to smile. So what right did you have to feel unhappy? That's the question you kept asking yourself. And because you couldn't answer it, you stopped asking. You learned to bury things. You learned that being funny could keep people from asking questions. That being tough could keep them from seeing fear. That being good at something could make you feel worth something. And somewhere along the way, you confused being noticed with being loved. Little man, I wish somebody had told you that those aren't the same thing. I wish somebody had told you that you didn't have to earn the right to be heard. That you could be strong and still be scared. That you could love your life and still have moments when living inside your own head felt terribly lonely. And that not understanding your sadness didn't make it any less real. I know something you don't know yet. You're going to spend a lot of years trying to outrun that feeling. There will be people who love you. People you'll love. Some you'll lose. There will be beautiful moments and terrible ones. There will be nights when you'll wish you could go back and change everything. And sometimes, even when life gives you more than you ever imagined, that little boy will still be somewhere inside you, wondering why he doesn't feel the way he thinks he's supposed to. I wish I could tell you that growing up fixes all of it. It doesn't. But here's what I can tell you. You were never weak for feeling things you couldn't explain. You were never ungrateful for being lonely in the middle of a happy childhood. And you were never as invisible as you believed. Nobody knew. Not your friends. Not the people cheering from the sidelines. Maybe not even the people who loved you most. But there's something I've finally come to understand. You didn't know either. You didn't have the words. And how could anybody hear a cry for help that even you didn't recognize? I'm fifty-one years old now, little man. And after all these years, after everything we've survived and everything we've lost, I think I finally know what I would say if I could sit beside you for just one minute. I wouldn't tell you to toughen up. I wouldn't tell you to stop crying. I wouldn't tell you that other people have it worse. I'd put my arm around your shoulders. And I'd say the four words you spent so much of your life needing to hear. I see you now. And for once, that would be enough. Love, The man you somehow survived long enough to become.