Letters to myself

Dear December 13, 1981 me,

Congratulations on being the fastest strongest sperm in your dads nutsack. It is your birthday, your very first day on the planet. You made it. You grew into a fetching bundle of cells and firing synapses.

It is a bright Sunday morning in Harris County, Houston Texas; and, you don’t know this yet but-

You are a future torch bearer.

They will try to vanquish your light. DO NOT, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCE LET THEM. This will be difficult.

You, my Darling Girl, are a future fierce feminist. They will call you a nasty woman. They will shame you and they will fail to police your humanity. You will THROW YOUR HEAD BACK AND LAUGH to their faces. You will also not give a fuck about public opinion, and are quite likely to shake your naked breasts at them while sticking out your tongue.

What wisdom could I possibly possess now, that you may value?

My soul says, “It is what you knew, but have forgotten in all of the madness, future Crone.”

So, I will tell you to remember.

I will tell you to touch everything. They will tell you to stop it, and that you shouldn’t do that. They will have no reason to offer when you become brave enough to inquire why it isn’t okay to feel it all.

I will tell you to never stop digging your bare toes into the earth-especially when your heart is heavy.

You will know great sadness.

The Earth will be integral to your healing.

Your mind, body, and soul will be a war zone that has seen too much too soon. You will be steel, forged from the fires of trauma, healing, and transformation.

You will always stop to blow dandelions. You will also always believe with absolute certainty as you watch the seeds scatter and float perfectly into whatever direction they were meant, that wishes do come true.

You are a powerful witch with powerful vision (for a girl that requires glasses to read the McDonalds menu.)

You will always be the freckle faced girl with wild red hair delicately capturing and kissing dragonflies before sending them on their way to be with their families. Every animal always had a family at home waiting for them. Remember that, when the world smears your shadow self in your hair and grins. You don’t have to cut it out of you. You aren’t ruined, you are still and will forever be the throbbing heart that kisses field mice and bugs before sending them home to their loved ones who are surely missing them and worried sick. You cherish the family you will collect as you go through life. Love will scare the ever-living shit out of you because you will be taught that love is being ambushed in the shower, having your naked body drug out soaking wet to be beaten by fists and leather belts, and words.

Words will be an integral part of your destiny. You will be burnt by them, kicked and punched by them, consumed and spat out by them, and you will gather every letter, you will hold them to your lips, kissing them, and you will thank every last one with tears in your eyes for breaking you open, you will be grateful for the rare ones that whispered remember.

You will write a book about a man that broke you open, you will write another one telling him thank you.

You must remember when they try to tell you what your name is- ‘fucking whore’, ‘worthless piece of shit’, ‘the girl from the wrong side of the tracks’, you must remember when you are in the quicksand that will be your cold bathroom floor, drunk, in the fetal position, selling yourself short in your ‘Why am I so easy to leave, why am I so hard to love’ notes to a God you will find out was your Omnipresent Self all along, that you are still that sweet girl that believes lightening bugs are magical. You are still that sweet girl who’s heart bled everytime your step dad made you watch him smear their light on his arms, and wipe the dead creature’s desecrated body on his holey jeans.

You are so tender. You always have been. You always will be.

You never were able to subscribe to the old timers complainings about the whiporwils, and their ‘tried and true’ advice to you, to tie a sock on the foot board bed post to stop their incessant mewling. They will forever be chock full of error, especially when man turned the fertile soil and tall grass fields they nested in into subdivisions. There will no longer be any whiporwils to sing you to sleep, and there never will be again. This will make your heart ache and feel as if it is going to explode out of your chest.

You will never understand man’s complete lack of regard and empathy for life.

Your heart will always be massive. They will tell you that it is not. You will believe them and behave in ways that wail, “I have no worth.” Some will leave you, some will try to stay and love you tenderly. You will feast on their hearts while hating yourself. You will seek to fulfill a prophecy generations of abuse, rejection, and abandonment shoved into your cells memory.

You will forget, only to remember how to decipher the molecular code of your healing.

Your rise is eminent.

You have known this since birth. They will try to define for you what your priorities should be, what success looks like, and what failure is. You will struggle as a young woman, with this, because your parents and the media will drill into your head, that you are to do as you’re told, don’t be difficult, and you are to be seen and not heard.

You will be sexually assaulted.

Men will try to rape you grope you, men will demand that you pull your pants and panties down, bare your bottom, and bend over for them, so that they can punish you for spraying your barbie’s hair with their cologne.

You are small, you are frightened, you are defenseless, and you know your place because they will tell you your place, and you will believe them.

You will bend over for them well into your thirties, sweet girl.

You will be silenced for most of your life.

Until you aren’t.

Until you aren’t…

One day, the deepest, most concentrated, mire of grief will drive you back home, into the most pristine wild you have always possessed, and you will bite back the bars, with your bared teeth. This is the part where it gets really, really, really fucking good. You will sink them decadently into anyone that tries to tell you what your name is again.

This deep well you possess will fervently urge you to roam. You will roam because you are thirsty, and you will stay still when you are sated and full, and people will tell you that you are a heathen, a gypsy, but most of all, they will name you directionless.

And, you will bite back their words as you did those bars, and you will smile wickedly as you proclaim, Thank you; I am directionless in the best and most fantastical ways imaginable. Would you care to join me?

They will not care to join you as they choose the locked gates of conformity and you have long outgrown that too small life. You will dine alone unapologetically, as the world tells you that you are doing it all wrong.

You will come full circle, my love.

You will come full circle, arriving flawed to perfection, and you will be the happiest you have ever been.
There is a happy that is happier than the happy you feel or have known before.

You will come to know- that happy endings are a real thing, and that both trial and triumph were worth enduring. And, you will finally believe that you deserve this life that you created from ash and bone, and that you deserve and deserved to be happy all along.

You will be grateful to live and be present.

You will know what it is to truly be well.

You will know what it is to be truly whole.

You will know what it is to be unruined.

You will know what it is to be fulfilled in every way, and in every facet of your life.

S. Conway

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