Dear me of various ages,
I remember you throwing yourself against the wall, though this did not happen. I remember your teeth, like a cornered rat. It was all so senseless. There is no cage; you are your own captor. You are still your own captor.
At some point you will break apart like a year-old seed. I will not say you have blossomed, but something inside slunk out, soft and shadowed. That is you now. Give up that idea of being able to contain something, of being 'full' or 'empty.' You are not a vessel. You are precisely what you are, whatever you may be. Whatever good or bad that will do you.
Every morning it is as though you must re-gather your skeleton. You make up things, to have something to say. You do not fall in love. You are habitual and begin to realize everyone is the same, including yourself. You lose the ability to distinguish one face from another. At night your skeleton disassembles itself again.
You learn not how to accept yourself, but rather that accepting or not accepting is equally worthless. You come to understand there is nothing worth doing. You become a person who thinks in millennia and it paralyzes you.
On some level this stagnancy is soothing, all-encompassing. Change becomes a manifestation of staying the same. At night your skeleton stops falling apart. It stiffens into a spiraling tower and you eventually stop tearing it down in the morning. It grows and grows.
At the top of the tower there might be a rat corpse, or a seed, or a soft dark thing. There might be nothing at all. You never climb it to find out. You shut your eyes and stop thinking.
I have nothing to offer you.