Dear Self,

If it wasn't for you, I wouldn't be here, so I guess I’m grateful. But quite frankly, we need to have a talk.

First of all, you’re a compulsive liar. You stretch the truth so people will think you’re funny, or smart, or in the right. You try to make other people look bad and yourself good and you can’t control it anymore. I don’t even know if I’m telling the truth in this note to you because I am you.

And then there’s the anxiety. You’re too scared to call your friends on the phone, but you make it out that you think texting is more efficient. That’s not it, though. You’re a coward. You have a panic attack if a bug flies past the window, let alone if it lands on you for a millisecond. You can’t make eye contact with anyone. You stare at the wall when they talk to you. You’re scared to join the writing club in case someone tells you in person that you can’t write well enough.

You act like you’re so tragic. Poor lonely me. Nobody really knows me. I know that you think that because I’m you. Of course you’re lonely. You don’t make any effort to have friends. And you can’t figure out if you’re introverted, shy, socially anxious, or antisocial.

You always pretend that you’re fine. You ignore all the proof inside your head that you aren't. The anxiety and paranoia and gut-wrenching sadness. You act like you’re not hollow on the inside. But you’re fake! You’re not real! You’ll always be imaginary.

I know that I’m you, and I should be grateful, but I ‘m done. I’m moving on. I don’t have to keep you around. I don’t need your self-pity! I don’t need you to be afraid of everything. I don’t need you to superficially brush everything off. I like the me that I want to be. The one who isn’t scared and a liar. So that’s the person I choose to be. I love you, because you’re me, but you’re too flawed and you’re weighing the rest of me down.

I hope you don’t take it personally, but I don’t need you anymore.
Love,
Yourself