A letter to my 18-year-old self
Recently Chynna wrote a letter to her eighteen-year-old self, and it reminded me that six years ago that I wrote a few things about what I’d tell my sixteen-year-old self. I hadn’t done eighteen, and I feel like now is the time I should be doing something like 21… but now, six years down the track from my last note, I think it’s time to write to myself seven years ago.
You probably still hate the name “Georgie”. But I’ll tell you, you will learn to strangely turn on your birth name and realise that “Georgie” is the real you. You won’t know how to explain it – you won’t know until later. You’ll just find, over time, that your birth name will no longer reflect you.
You’re in a relationship. One of the longest you’ll ever have. It’ll be rewarding, but it’ll also be tough, and I know you’ll have your doubts. I can’t tell you what to do, but don’t get too comfortable. Like your previous relationship, don’t get too attached. Don’t expect him to pine after you the way you think a fairytale should be. Being a hopeless romantic won’t have much of a place in this relationship. It won’t be a fairytale. It will end one day, a long way away, but the timing won’t be right, and I only wish you could make it right. But I want you to enjoy it while you’re in it. You’ll know when it’s time to let go, and you’ll have your doubts. But when you have your doubts, act on them… don’t just stay there.
Be strong. Because university is a shitty hellhole that you’re going to think you’re good at, but newsflash: you’re not. You’ll excel in some subjects and do terribly at some others. So make sure you actually try, even though skipping lectures and pretending to be sick is appealing. There’s going to be excruciating amounts of group work that you’ll hate.
Oh yeah, and if I told you that you were never going to drink a drop of alcohol until you’re around 22 (legal age is 18 for goodness’ sake, you’re not in America!), you’d probably not believe me. Stop trying to be so goody-two-shoes… because I hate to break it to you, you’re going to be a terrible rebel and break a shit ton of rules. Just have a damn drink and stop trying to brag that you’ve never had alcohol. You’re kinda missing out. Just start early and control yourself, you will be fine.
You’re going to go to concerts. I know you have been dying to go to one for ages. You’re going to go to so many. So. Many. And you’re going to spend a lot of money but you’re not going to regret it. But stop buying so much fucking jewellery. I’m telling you that you’re going to be wasting your money on it until you’re 25, so bloody do something about it now.
Your fashion sense sucks! I know you’re trying to still be the punk that you were, but that Sheldon Cooper-like long-sleeved-shirt-plus-geek-t-shirt look is not doing you any favours. That purple dress with the boots though? Kick ass. And those trendy tights with the wicked patterns? Keep wearing them and grabbing those compliments because they are going to stop being trendy quick.
And when you stomach tells you to eat McDonald’s every day for breakfast, don’t. Just don’t. Sure, you have abs, that you can’t even see! You could be so much fitter than that.
I’m not joking when I say you should probably try being vegetarian. You said you were sick of chicken after all, right?
I’m probably not being helpful, but you probably try too hard. All this effort you’re putting into your blog with returning comments and reviews is killing you. You need to relax. I know you love being called superwoman but please, woman, give yourself a break. After all, you’re only eighteen, and seeing you fall asleep on campus is killing me.
Have a cup of tea. You’ll be thankful. Read a little more, sleep a little better, eat a little better.