A Letter to Myself at Eighteen, the First Night in the Dorm When Nobody in the Room Had Spoken Yet

To me at eighteen,

sitting on the edge of the lower bunk, feet hanging down, the backpack still zipped shut.

I know what you are hearing. The ceiling fan creaking once with every turn. Slippers shuffling in the corridor. The sharp smell of floor cleaner mixed with new bedding that still holds its folds. Eight beds, seven people already here, and nobody has said anything longer than "which province are you from." Dad left less than half an hour ago. He caught the coach at the station, turned and waved once and then stopped, but I remember he kept looking through the glass for another ten seconds or more, after the coach had pulled away.

I am writing to you from thirty-two. Not to teach you anything. Only because I remember that night better than you would think, and I do not think anyone told you the things below.

You are afraid. You do not dare call it fear, because back home everyone says a girl from the provinces going to study in the city is a good sign, something to be glad about. So you put the fear at the bottom of the backpack, pressed under the dictionary, and sit up straight as if waiting for someone to call your name. I understand. I would have done the same.

At nine in the evening you call home on your keypad phone. Dad picks up on the second ring, as if he had been holding it in his hand for a long time.

"Have you eaten, my girl?"

"Yes, Dad."

"How is the room, is it warm?"

"It's fine, Dad, really good."

In truth you have eaten half a packet of cold instant noodles, the room is a bit chilly, and you are not really fine. You say "really good" because you can hear Dad breathing softly on the other end, and you do not want that breath to get any heavier. I do not blame you. I only want you to know that I can see the place where you are hiding something, and it is not a bad place.

There are a few things I will tell you in advance, so you do not wait in the wrong spot.

Tomorrow morning you will go down to the canteen, standing there with a tray of sticky rice in your hands, looking around. A girl at the back table will look up and ask, "Is anyone sitting here?" You will say, "No." The two of you will eat in silence, then go off to separate classes. That girl will not become your best friend. I am telling you now so you do not wait for a friendship to begin at that breakfast, because it does not begin like that. There will be months when you still feel alone among eight beds, and the feeling does not mean you have done something wrong. It lasts longer than you expect. I do not know when it will ease for you, so I will not promise.

Then one day you will notice you are less guarded, with no warning, and that will not come from one big conversation either. It may come from a power strip the whole room shares, from someone asking to borrow your scissors, from realising you remember who likes to sleep near the window. Things so small that when they happen you do not notice. I only noticed later, looking back.

Tonight there are two things not to blame yourself for. The first is that you pressed your face into the pillow that smells of starched cloth and did not cry out loud. Nobody in the room knows, and you managed to keep your face together until morning. It would also be fine if you cried out loud. The second is the "really good" you just told Dad. You can tell him the truth on some other night, or never tell him and tell someone else instead. That can wait.

I want to thank you. Thank you for staying on the edge of that bed instead of hauling the backpack to the bus station the next morning, even though Dad had tucked exactly the fare home into your coat pocket, folded in four. I know you thought about it tonight at least once.

I also thank you for brushing your teeth, changing into your sleep clothes, putting the backpack up on the shelf, and lying down, even though you could not sleep. Every step in that small chain took effort, and you did enough.

I promise you one thing, because I am the only one who can promise on your behalf. Every time I sit on the edge of another unfamiliar bed, in a new room, a new company, a new city, I will not force myself to say "really good" when I am not. I will let myself sit there, hear the fan creak, and not yet do anything at all.

For now, I only hope you get some sleep, even a short one. If you cannot sleep yet, just lie there listening to the fan turn. That is enough for tonight.

Me at thirty-two

The first time I did this exercise, the third step took longest, because I could not remember what I had said. I only remembered Dad's voice. Some people feel a little lighter after writing, some feel sadder, and some feel nothing and it still counts. On a day when you do not want to write a whole letter, step two alone, three small things, is enough.

If you want to read more letters near this place, there is a letter to someone alone in a rented room and a letter to the new colleague this week.

When to seek professional support

This article is a letter to my own younger self about the first night away from home. It cannot replace treatment, and I am not promising it will make the feeling of being alone go away.

But here are a few signs you should bring to a professional, rather than carrying them alone:

• The feeling of being alone has lasted for weeks, with no day that feels lighter.
• You do not want to see anyone at all, including people you trust.
• Your sleep or your eating has been clearly thrown off for many days in a row.
• You think about hurting yourself, even if it is just a passing thought.

The last point cannot wait. Speak with someone you trust, today. The Emergency Support page explains what holds true in moments like that.

Seeking out a professional to talk to does not mean your situation is too heavy. It is simply one more place where you do not have to say "really good" when it is not yet.