A Letter to Myself

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I know we say this all the time, but what did we learn in school that ended up actually being beneficial to our every day life? I mean, even the things they insisted were of vital importance, such as Maths and English. Well, English was extremely beneficial to me, for obvious reasons. English and History were the only subjects in school I was really good at. Maths on the other hand? I was always terrible at Maths, and still am to this day. But guess what, this doesn’t affect my every day life. I remember even back then I would ask my Maths teacher why we really needed this, as we could just use a calculator when we needed to work something out. He used to look at me like I’d said the most ignorant shit ever. Guess what we’re all doing now though? Using a fucking calculator!

What I’m trying to say is, I don’t feel like we were taught much that would actually be valuable to us later in life. Things such as how to gain and/or maintain good credit, how to identify a bad relationship from a good one or how to appropriately manage and assess your emotions. As I write this, I’m literally sitting here crying my eyes, wishing that last one was a weekly lesson they could have slipped in. Reason being that I just had yet another argument with my mum (what else is new?), about something so stupid and nonsensical. I mean, it’s so small it is genuinely not even worth getting into. But it was just confirmation that every time I feel like my mother and I are finally getting closer to having an actual relationship, we take another two steps back.

I know that, despite our issues in the past, I have a lot to do with why our relationship is the way it is now. I didn’t spend as much time in my home as I should have until recently. I mean, the reason why I didn’t is because of the relationship I had with my parents. But I should have stayed around more and concentrated on having a relationship with my brothers instead. Now I don’t even have that. I feel almost like a stranger walking around my home, making small talk with my younger brother not unlike I would with a random colleague at work. And what really hurts is, I no longer feel like I even have an escape outside my house either. It took me a long time, but I’ve come to the realisation that all I was doing was running away from my pain, and into the arms of “friends” that didn’t really give a fuck about me. Most of those people, I don’t even fuck with anymore. And I am glad. But even after that, I still failed to see that I was still making myself a permanent guest in a home I had no business being in. Now because of that, I feel that my mum just looks at me and sees a female version of my dad. Someone who wakes up and doesn’t intend to do anything to help anyone except themselves. The truth is, this is not me at all. But my mum doesn’t often get an opportunity to see that, as she’s so used to having to be the only proactive one, by the time I wake up everything that needs to be done is already done.

I know this sounds like a lame excuse, but it’s really the truth. I know it can’t fly any longer though, so I’m going to do what I need to do to make sure that my mum has the physical help she needs from me. But I am far from the description of the typical traditional Nigerian daughter she had in mind, from the clothes I wear and the tattoos and piercings on my body, to my life choices, bad language and weed smoking. So it’s just sad that no matter how much better our relationship may seem on the surface, she will never truly love and appreciate me for the person I really am. I mean, she’s never going to read this. And when I say “this”, I don’t mean this letter. I mean my blog, my books when I eventually start writing them. She won’t listen to my podcast when I start recording it, and she most likely will not be aware of any achievements of mine that aren’t brought to her attention from an outside source. Simply because she knows that the content will not be compatible with her faith, and that’s all there is to it.

So this is why I’m sitting here wishing we could have been taught how to deal with our emotions effectively, and compartmentalise what we needed to so we can continue living our lives without carrying our pain around. Wishing with every fibre of my being that I could take a time machine to go back to age sixteen and do it all over again. Because if I knew ten years ago that me spending all this time outside my house was just going to end up being a detriment to me, something that would make it much worse and not better, things would probably be very different today in the most positive way. But here I am, writing this and coming to terms with the fact that I may well be depressed or suffering from some kind of mental illness. Because if I didn’t, I don’t think I’d be sitting here convinced that if I were to die today, I don’t think anyone would really care, and I mean really care, apart from my mother. The one person who might actually give a fuck, yet our relationship still seems to be damaged beyond complete repair. Isn’t that sad? 26 years on this earth, and I don’t believe I’ve truly had an effect on anybody’s life. The lowest I’ve ever felt, and the chances are nobody will even read this.

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