To the Part of Me That Was Ready to Let Go

To Whom It May No Longer Concern,

It is time to resign from the role I once occupied; the version of myself who desperately wanted to die. This isn't a request for sympathy, nor a theatrical farewell number. It is the hard-won declaration that I made it; the young girl who was desperate to never see 18, or even 25, has made it to 33. Effective immediately, I will no longer stand in the position of Self-Hater-in-Chief (SHIC), the maker of morbid fantasies, or the chronic self-saboteur. Consider this my two weeks notice, delivered two weeks late, because I'm already on the road to my new life.

I'll admit, you weren't just a phase: you were an entire era. You, SHIC, were the voice in my head that made me believe that there was never a chance for me to be enough, and that it was worthless to try. You were the curator who meticulously presented me with the darkest intrusive thoughts, the ghostwriter to the narratives I began to hold onto, and the driver on the road to too many close calls and silent breakdowns behind a barely closed door. You were so persuasive, I couldn't help but listen.

I listened to the carefully written script you presented me. That I was unlovable. That I would never be worthy of anything good. I cocked my head and strained my ears to hear when you whispered that pain was the only thing I could feel, that silence would be sweeter than survival, if I only followed your plan. But you lied. You lied with such conviction, I truly almost succeeded multiple times over.

By writing you this letter, I'm not just resigning from the attempted self-exit that I so desperately craved while you were in the driver's seat. It's hitting the big red button to implode the infrastructure that you spent so long engineering in my mind. The ideation. The self-harm. The dark rituals I took part in as some kind of sacrifice to a Dark Goddess that never truly wanted me to hand over my life at all. Take my badge that I earned as the Self-Hating Employee of the Month. What a waste, an unpaid role that cost me everything. I left with nothing but scars, shame, and deep-seated secrets I will never share.

You made isolation feel like a paradise; there were no compliments that you could convince me were just manipulations, there was no love to recoil from, there was no trickery disguised as kindness. You thrived in that dark corner, and you were relentless about it. But you lost your grip. Not all at once, of course. There was no grand epiphany blasted over the loud speakers. There was no spotlight, no main character moment. Just little rebellions that slowly took hold. I lost my fear, got behind the wheel, and slammed my foot down on the gas. Instead of aiming for a bridge railing, I pointed myself down the open left lane on the highway and found a new life. I started to laugh. I started to thrive. I started to find myself. I let people see me. I allowed people to help. I allowed myself to love. Every moment I spent distancing myself from you was a beautiful act of mutiny.

This isn't simply symbolic. This is a structural renovation. You are no longer a tenant in my mind. The lease is up. The eviction notice was posted. The locks have been changed, and there are police at the door ready to escort your toxic SHIC self out.

Will I still hear you on occasion? Sure. You'll be nothing more that the bad radio station that I accidentally tune into late at night while I stare into the black sky. But now, I know how to turn the dial and change the station. You're not the prophetic truth-teller you sold yourself as. I don't have to take your words to heart.

I know I will always have dark thoughts. I'm not so naive to think that I can rewire my brain overnight. Nobody likes to admit that these thoughts linger when you start healing. The world doesn't suddenly shift to glitter and sunshine and safety. People are still cruel, and the systems are still broken. Loneliness is still a fog in the distance. But now, when you try to plant your seeds, you'll find that the your side of the field has been salted to infertility, and anything that breaks through is met with flames and kerosene.

I'll be honest, you taught me to be the CEO of Hatred. But these days, I'm saving that skill you gave me. I'll use it, sure. But not for me. Never, ever again for me. I've found new, more deserving targets. The people who weaponize their power, who take no shame in exploitation, who are completely devoid of empathy. Let them be the ones who experience my anger. Let them be the ones who shudder at the power of my metaphorical emotional weaponry. I'm done turning it inwards.

Please note that this resignation includes the shame that I'm relinquishing into the depths of the pit you call home. I'm not going to be embarrassed and shameful in admitting that I wanted to die, that I tried to die; by the knife, by the drugs, by the reckless behaviors and the poisons I kept under my bed for a rainy day. That was the storm that I weathered, and though I'm still wringing your rain from my hair and clothing, my people are bringing me towels and fresh clothes. If someone can't stand the truth of my history, their fragility will not be my burden to carry.

I am not a perfect, fully healed person. And that's not my objective. The objective, the most important task at hand, is to stay. To live. To thrive through the wildfires. I catch myself singing in the car, and I laugh until I can't breathe. I take deep breaths for no other reason than it feels good to expand and fill my chest with fresh air. I fill the void with my children's giggles and the yarn that I weave into their sweaters and stuffed animals. The space that was once reserved for the Self-Hater-In-Chief is now saved for the heaps of love and joy that I have delivered by the truckload to remind me why it's worth staying.

I don't need you anymore. Your absence isn't a loss. It's a liberation, and the space that has been created in your absence is sacred.

Consider this my final log-in, the final shift, the final bow as I collect my flowers. I'm leaving the office, I'm locking the door, and tossing the uniform into the dumpster fire that was once my life.

No regrets. No severance package needed. Just my freedom.

Sincerely,

The One Who Chose To Live