Today, I remembered myself, a fresher in 1995, devouring Plath and Fitzgerald and raging against conformity. I stumbled on that self in an elegant blog, penned 20 years later, by another teenage Emily.
What poetry in her prose. We read the same, and write the same, (except my diaries were scrawled by hand in the twentieth century, for my eyes only. This 19-year-old blogs in real time, for all the world to see).
Like hers, my journals whispered rawness, shrieked agony, isolation, anger, scorn, disgust.
Malady, My Lady stirs a memory, of what happened to my head when I first took Prozac. Like I was standing in a glass box. Life could look at me, but not touch.
I imagine a bolder twin in the mirror, fixing her demons with a steely eye. Calling them by name, banishing the shame.
I bet her metrics went through the roof when Alastair Campbell featured her on his blog. That’s where I found her, and I’ll keep going back. Because she gave me reason to believe, to hope, and her writing swept away the cloud that cloaked today.
Malady, My Lady reminds me of when my therapist asked: if I could go back and speak to the young girl I used to be, what would I say to her?
Don’t worry, everything is going to be alright. You are a good person. You will find pride, peace, and a place in the world.
Not all the time. Not nearly enough of the time. But enough to lift you sometimes. Enough to maybe help someone else – like she did, today, with me