Hello Future Me!
It’s been a while since I last greeted you. Surprised by the title of this message? Don’t be surprised just yet; this is only the beginning. What follows will be even more astonishing.
Last year, I turned 20 years old. Not exactly young anymore, but not too old either. It feels like standing at a border. My mind is in turmoil about Past Me and you.
You know how I grew up, how I developed. We weren’t raised with a silver spoon, but at least it was decent—aluminum. We didn’t need to break our backs at a young age to survive. Forget breaking backs; we didn’t even have to think about daily household chores. Eating, going to school, playing—that’s all there was to it. Whatever we wanted, we simply asked for it. Whatever we asked for, we just held out our hands to receive it.
But truly, I know, and you know, that all those conveniences didn’t come easily and weren’t always given with an open heart. Everything has its reasons.
Like us being born with VLBW (Very Low Birth Weight) due to premature birth. The first child. That became the reason why we were so carefully protected in a greenhouse-like environment.
But is a greenhouse that’s shielded from the outside truly fine on the inside? Of course, it depends on internal factors and external ones that enter. The dynamics of life within the greenhouse are not smooth either.
We weren’t allowed to complain about anything because we had received so much already. But because we were still children, we had more freedom in many things. The key was crying or sulking: if given what we wanted, we stayed quiet; if not given, we stayed quiet too. If we kept grumbling, of course, there would be anger—sometimes even physical punishment like pinches or slaps.
This reminds me of Past Me—of the journey home on a ship when we complained about something lacking in what had been purchased earlier. We were indeed wrong for not being sensitive enough to the situation and unable to read other people’s emotions—specifically Mom’s emotions. Unable to hold back her overflowing anger, she shoved the newly bought colored pencils into our mouths to silence us. As a result, everyone screamed in shock while we fell silent.
That day always leaves psychological scars.
Sometimes we still complained later on, but eventually, an alarm for sensitivity always rang at the right time so that we could prepare before gasoline spilled onto fire.
Past Me was a good child despite some traits that made people shake their heads—like being hyperactive and talkative but then becoming quiet and keeping feelings inside later on. This was due to external influences that shaped such response mechanisms in her. A child’s brain circuitry is so pure and straightforward that sometimes adults who have experienced life’s ups and downs feel powerless against it.
This child wasn’t wrong—truly wasn’t wrong. The way she was raised and stimulated by the outside world made her build such responses to protect herself.
Despite her childish selfishness, this child tried to understand other people’s feelings and learn so that painful situations wouldn’t repeat themselves—and this was very difficult, like learning to walk for the first time, facing falls that were sometimes so silly.
Only when she grew big enough did she understand that intentions and efforts weren’t always accepted easily.
When Past Me tried helping in the kitchen for the first time, she was immediately shooed away—and this happened again and again afterward—making her feel powerless until she secretly learned how to light a kerosene stove at a friend’s house. The sensation of her first success frying a sunny-side-up egg etched itself into her memory.
The same went for sweeping, washing dishes, and doing laundry.
Past Me didn’t dare ask to be taught; she learned by observing secretly trying things out before doing them openly.
Because once proficient, permission would be granted—or so she hoped.
Unfortunately, that still wasn’t enough because this child was carefully protected from having to do such tasks—but strangely ended up being criticized by Mom for laziness: forbidding yet complaining about it simultaneously.
She clearly didn’t allow it—or maybe because we weren’t assertive enough in showing our good intentions… How could something become habitual if it wasn’t made habitual?
“I was never taught; I learned on my own! Whenever my Mom called me out loud—I did it immediately.”
Never taught but learned alone? That’s impossible—it must have been indoctrination because then came statements like: “Whenever my Mom called me out loud—I did it immediately.”
Indoctrination is a powerful weapon for forming habits.
Mom never indoctrinated us; she didn’t want us facing what she did—but at the same time blamed us for her choices.
No—it’s our fault for not being earnest enough—we weren’t strong enough enduring prohibitions so chose retreat instead—not making additional moves—content with ease.
The dynamics within greenhouses: protected yet limited.
Years passed; Past Me improved handling emotions towards others while understanding daily chores better—though they didn’t become habits.
Do what can be done, the rest just think about it, only think about it. This is a flawed mindset, but what can be done? Habits are not as easy to change as flipping a hand. 41Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡuXRz14iBjD
We ignore all complaints: "Lazy," "All you do is sleep," "All you do is complain," and so on.41Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡC5Qh8AxTXz
This doesn't mean we are powerless. Complaints always create a push. And a push is a form of effort.
At that time, Past Me had washed her clothes, placed them down, and informed that they had been washed. However, they were washed again because they were deemed not clean enough, adding more work.
Once again, we were not told how to make up for the shortcomings. We pondered it ourselves.
We chose to give up. Swallowing bitterness, surrendering, letting it be—after all, there was no need to try.
Past Me had tried, but it simply wasn’t enough. We eventually chose to close our eyes and ears.
What exists in the greenhouse is controlled. Whether it fits or not, whether it’s enough or not, complaints still arise.
We didn’t understand enough; we also weren’t understood enough.
Future Me, truly, we grew up wrongly, didn’t we? Regret? Of course—especially at this age when complaints have become more intense. It feels exhausting but has become numbing.
I never asked for this—not even once. Why does Mom trouble herself? Then blame me?
Why did I give up? Why didn’t I try harder? Why didn’t I prove myself more clearly?
Again and again—we didn’t understand enough; we weren’t understood enough.
Always ready to be wrong; always wrong.
No need to complain—everything at home is settled: meals prepared, chores done, money requests fulfilled with just words.
No need to complain—take the path that has been set; stop dreaming—it’s pointless.
We don’t know the future—so how can you say this with certainty? How can you be sure we will fail?
“Going far away for college—just dreaming! Let your underwear be washed for you.”
First of all—I can wash it myself. So why not?
“No college student like you—all are independent. I’m mocked by others because of you.”
I don’t care—why're you bothered by others’ words? Because their words are true? In fact, their words are not entirely true—that’s why I don’t care.
And there’s much more.
The point is—it’s all wrong anyway, Future Me.
From the beginning—the path has been determined. Frankly, I cry while typing this—the path has been determined. It’s truly painful dealing with regret.
The path you will take is overshadowed by regret.
The bird’s feet were injured before flying. Trapped in a cage.
Who is selfish—the parent or the child? I must admit—it’s certainly us.
The hopes of Past Me, my current state, and your resolution determine our life path.
A week ago—I had an accident due to carelessness. Rushing because I was late—which led to disaster. Until today—I haven’t fully recovered.
I’m very frustrated, Future Me. It’s not about the pain, it’s just that not being able to walk normally will limit me in many ways.
This isn’t new—I’ve fallen many times before. But this one is the worst.
I argued with Mom for a long time, it started with an issue about my lack of concern for filling the water tower—which triggered her anger.
Regarding my injured leg—it was dismissed lightly. Compared to her complaints and all the comforts I’ve received—it was deemed insignificant.
I’m wrong; always so—and should always be so.
But this stems from my anxiety about the crowded class ahead—the CSL requiring excessive physical activity—with this injury limiting my movement—leading to inefficiency in completing the class tasks.
This pressure makes me feel stuck, the failures in previous class and anxiety about this semester.
Accumulated disappointment—frustration—and long-held regret made me explode too. You understand me—I’ve never been this bad before. Past Me was a good girl—a truly good girl.
Then Mom said:
“Just cut off your leg.”
“I regret giving birth to you.”
“You’re stupid—just stay silent.”
“This is your punishment—reflect on yourself.”
“Better if you just die.”
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About wanting death—I’ve already reflected on it.
Hey Future Me—if there were death without pain—how wonderful that would be. Am I crazy for thinking this? Because if so—how can you exist?
I am so cruel to want to stop you—forgive me.
Maybe you don’t fully agree, ofc, you have your own mind.
I am wrong, but deeply wish to die soon.
Oh Lord—I fear suicide—grant me death without pain—I beg You earnestly.
I have lived for 20 years in a greenhouse—a cage—in relation to family and parents.
I should be grateful—for all the ease provided.
Indeed, I should be grateful.
But still, I am no longer stable anymore
My mind has become troubled
I keep destroying myself
So,41Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡcdLz1uKHkQ
If my departure can erase my pain and regret
And if my departure can relieve Mom—
Then Lord—
Please let me die—
I beg You—
Allow me to die without pain—
If death has already been decreed by You—
Then—
Forgive me for praying for it to come quickly—
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I am leaving now, Future Me!
Thank you for reading this. If indeed I am still alive—or if gone—the writing will forever remain buried.
Goodbye
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