Dear me,
You're still there, in the back of my head, telling me I can't do this, or I'm not worth that. But we've had this conversation time and time again (nearly every hour in fact), but that's ok, you're like someone's Nazi grandmother living upstairs, you don't affect them anymore, they just feel bad for you. And look at me now! I barely believe what and who I've become, and the few people that I tell, about who I was and how low I was, don't believe it. Well, you know, but you look at who I've become with this look of frustration in your face.
You'd love to hold me back, and once in a while, you rear your big, fat ugly head. But hey, there are other extremely shiny people in my life, and they make it really hard for you to bring me down. But even without them, I'm just too strong, too big, too independent of the world, for you to mess with. I've made too much of me. I see other people who remind me of you, and I help and I help. It's almost like I miss that first realisation, that glimmer of hope, that I could beat you, and I relive it through helping bring out that glimmer of hope in others. You'll probably always be there with me, but your voice grows smaller and smaller everyday.
Me