Dear Asshole,

Look, you know and I know that there are plenty of tiny but mighty reasons to stay alive, and there are many annoying mental exercises a person can do to reacquaint themselves with those reasons, but you are sick of hearing that bullshit. There are plenty of bigger things you could try if they appealed—serious religion, depression meds, psilocybin, move to Spain, get an ugly dog you are forced to walk and feed—and you know all that too. You’re an old hand at suffering. This pain of yours is old enough to drive. And you haven’t been sitting on your ass about it, either. You’ve done the joyful daffodil thing, every fucking spring.

So, ok, I’m going to tell you a story. In my late teens, I had an eating disorder for a couple years and I really did not want to get better. Towards the end of it, I sat on the steps of a building at my college and filled a big sheet of notebook paper, front and back, with everything I loved about my beautiful eating disorder. It saved me so much money to skip meals. Denying myself made me feel powerful. I actually looked good in sundresses, for the first and only time. I loved having visible ribs and going over them every day like a rosary. It was spring, the quad was stupid green, and I felt like I was being asked to kill off a part of me I adored. I did not want to turn into a person who wanted to eat. Which is to say, I did not want to turn into a person who really wanted to live. It was all very romantic, and as far as dating was concerned, it ruled. Someone was always in love with in me.

I’m telling you this to paint the picture of a person who knew they were supposed to want to feel better and did not want to, for a lot of good reasons. The pain felt good. Pain feels good sometimes! We are fucked up monkeys cursed with souls and sometimes we want to hurt ourselves more than we want to keep living. And there wasn’t some revelatory moment where I saw a lovely bird in the lovely trees and the beauty of life dazzled me into a hamburger. What happened was: I read my list of reasons not to eat, several times, and then I tore it up and ate the list.

It was messed up. Guts don’t handle paper very well, especially when there’s not much else in them. But it was just 1 page, and I didn’t make a habit out of it. I just remember sitting on those steps, angrily chewing what was essentially wood pulp, and thinking: fucking fine, I guess. And then I proceeded to get better, but not with anything resembling grace. I was a real asshole about it.

You don’t have to want to, you cranky motherfucker. You just have to do it. Go running in the sunshine. Do it every day. I don’t care if you want to. Your brain is a little broken right now, so you need to stop listening so hard to its bullshit. Give yourself discipline, instead. Drink the water, eat the vegetables. Send your friend a congratulations card, and write down five things you actually remember liking about her. Stop beating yourself up for hating the squirrels and the flowers. They had it coming. Feel exactly as shitty as you feel, and get up in the morning to do the work anyway.

And hey, this misery will not last forever. You will remember how to love yourself again.