My mental space is a constant warzone;

The warrior in it is a single-handed teenager refusing to battle

Yet she finds herself caught amid a crossfire nonetheless.

"You feel yourself being mistreated continually because apparently the inner child in you hasn't been treated with the care it once needed", they say.

But what about the inner teenager in me? How do I quiet down a rebel within me that refuses to surrender to false hopes and make-believe daydreams?

How do I tell her, that things often don't work out the way you expect them to,

And that you are, in fact, alone in this.

At the end of the day you pull yourself together–yes, you will be driven into madness and put into exile from all the people you wish to seek help from,

You will be put in chains and your lips will be sealed shut.

The poison brewing within you will continue to destroy you until one day,

one day you decide to stop fighting it and maybe accept it all.

How do I teach my inner teenager that?

That acceptance is the key to surviving the war, and letting go is the doorway to seeking shelter somewhere safe?

That sooner or later, you must  drop down your weapons and refuse to gulp down the fragmented lies your mind constantly feeds you.

"Dear twenty five year-old me, I may not have the answers for you,

I may not have a tactic plan prepared to calm the rage within you,

But you should know, no matter the consequences, no matter the bitter choices you made,

No matter the darker weathers you hide yourself in, the judgments and the unforgivable circumstances you put yourself into trying to heal–I am here for you."

I am here for you, like an empty-handed beggar reaching out its hands to you even though it does not have much to offer.

I know how tired you feel of opening up to a new stranger everyday hoping,

That they will offer you a hand and say—"I am here for you."

I know how exhausting it feels like to be not reached out to when you thought you needed it the most.

I know your expectations were the very reason why you collapsed constantly.

Because you believed they will be there for you just as you were always there for them.

Trust me, I know.

Because I've been in your shoes, too and it fit perfectly–our grief and scars are painted with the same shades of shame.

So trust me on this, and just know–I am here for you.

For I have been you, and I have survived.

And one day out of nowhere, you will find yourself holding your ground, too.

You will have won the battle without bloodshed.

Parts of you will be wounded and may or may not heal but you will grow out of it.

Perhaps, one day, you too will be sitting on this chair distracted by the loads of deadlines–writing to your thirty year-old self, saying–I am here for you.

I am here for you. I am. Trust me.

Maliha Tribhu is a writer, currently an undergraduate majoring in Marketing at the University of Dhaka.