Dear Me

(I stole this one from TrudyJ. The idea is to write a letter to yourself in the past, and originates from Miscellaneous Mum.)

Andrea McDowell
Somewhere in the GTA
Circa 2007

Andrea McDowell
Somewhere else in the GTA

March, 1989

Hi Andrea.

The first thing that will strike you about this letter is that I'm writing it and, besides the obvious space-time paradoxes this proposes, it would suggest that I/you am/are still alive. Indeed we are. We're even happy.

I know you, having once been you, so right about now you are suspecting a hoax. It's no joke, my dear. Though I don't blame you for thinking so.

First, the bad news: You're going to end up with type 1 diabetes in a few years. Don't bother looking it up; it won't do you any good. And while you will end up with lots of boyfriends, you will have a horrendous track record with the Michaels--all three will end up long-distance and cause you no end of grief. Again, the prospect of romance will be so novel I doubt this will affect your decisions to embark on those relationships, but don't say I didn't warn you. I'd suggest you also steer clear of anyone who's name begins with "C."

If you don't mind me dispensing a little Older Self advice--and why else would I write this letter?--you have a tendency to lose your head over any boy's interest, probably because you thought it would never happen and never manage to lose the belief that this will be the very last time anyone will be stupid enough to see anything in you. I don't imagine there's anything I can say to change this. Is there? At the time we are reading this, you have been the butt of so many jokes that I can't blame you; but I can tell you that just one short year from now, everything will be completely different. Someone's going to fall in love with you--and you think it will never happen.

Also, you're not going to have a few bestsellers out there by your 21st birthday. Win some, lose some. Really, it's not as bad as you'll be thinking as you read this. You have lots of time to write books. I can tell you that you will publish one day. I can't tell you what comes after that as I haven't gotten there yet myself. But if 52 writes me a letter, you'll be the first person to know.

Also also, you're going to have a little girl. Her name is Frances, and she is perfect and beautiful. There will be a time from late in the pregnancy to about 18 months after she is born where you are terrified and hurting because of some cracked information from certain medical professionals. This, too, will all turn out. Frances is worth a thousand of the babies that other people will tell you you should have had and ought to want. Which, yes, means you are going to be married, too (and there are surprises in store there that I don't want to ruin for you; but remember what I said about people whose names begin with "C"). I know you think that'll never happen, partly because no one will ever love you and partly because of your glorious independence, but people change. Even you.

Oh, should I mention that you're not going to be a Christian forever? Sorry about that. I know your faith right now is what gets you through most days. I know this because I recently reread all of those entries where you talked about how much you wanted to die so you could go to Heaven and meet Jesus. I know you won't believe me when I say this, but this particular change is a very good thing. A very painful, very good thing that has nothing to do with your immortal soul and everything to do with becoming an ethical person and an activist. You'll see. In the meantime, that's your lifeboat, I know, so hold on as tight as you need to. When you don't need the lifeboat anymore, you'll know, and you'll make the jump to something more livable a lot more smoothly than you are currently capable of anticipating.

You're going to learn how to bake chocolate chip cookies, and you'll be good at it. Ditto the brownies and various Christmas treats. You won't be able to do it as often as you'd like because of the diabetes, so enjoy it while you can. Over the next year you're going to pick up cross-stitching and you'll be good at that, too; but remember that all the x's should be stitched in the same direction, or it will look rough and uneven.

Get to know Elizabeth a little better than you have. She won't be around for very long, and you'll regret not knowing her.

Try to remember the times that your parents acted like they love you. I can't remember many of those times myself, which is why I'm asking you this; when it happens, write it down, ok? You'll want to know one day. I hope it goes without saying that they do: with their whole "spare the rod, spoil the child" philosophy it is not surprising that you don't believe this, but about fifteen years from now, you'll start patching things up with them.

Absolutely take the keyboarding course. It will seem like a rotten use of your summer at the time but, dear, it is the single most useful thing you will learn in highschool. I am using it right now. Computers will take over the world shortly and being able to use a keyboard proficiently will make your life so much easier. You're a geek, so I don't have to encourage you too strongly, I know; don't worry. I'm still a geek myself.

Pick up Ursula le Guin and Patricia McKillip in the bookstore a little earlier. Your Dad's taste in science fiction is more sexist than yours is going to turn out to be, and I think it would be good for you to be exposed to more female characters and protagonists a bit sooner in your development. Also, skip right over the Young Adult shelves and go straight for the grown-up stuff. I know the Young Adult signs say 11-14. Defy it. A little rebellion would be good for you.

There are so many things I want to warn you about. So many things you thought you'd never do, and did (heads up: you're not going to be a virgin when you get married, and you are going to have an abortion, and your immortal soul will be just fine); so many things you were sure you'd do, and didn't (you're not going to be a full-time writer; you're good at it, but the health insurance sucks and diabetes does make some choices for you; you're not going to be a missionary--it's a bad career choice for a non-Christian). You are dead certain about so many things--coincidentally, the same things you are dead wrong about. I'll confine myself to a few:

1. You're going to start using slang. Shortly thereafter, you'll start swearing. Your conscience will survive both of these traumatic incidents.

2. The pioneer-girl look is not a good one for you. Enjoy being 115 lbs while it lasts and wear whatever you think you can get away with. Ditto with 135, though you'll think you're fat at the time (you're not fat! Stop dieting!). Stop buying your clothes at old-lady stores and start looking like a teenager. There is nothing wrong with being or looking like a teenager. Teenagers are not repositories of sin. I know, you don't believe me, but it's true.

3. You're almost out. It's almost over. Just hang on, ok?

There's no way you can know this from where you are. I know you feel completely alone. I know you are afraid that you always will be alone, that life will never have happiness for you. I know that you wake every morning dreading another day at the mercy of the bullies at school and then dread coming home to another evening at the mercy of your parents. It's almost over. It's almost over. Just hang on. You can have no idea right now how different your life will be in even just six months. That's how close you are to the end.

Trying to kill yourself won't solve anything, and will just expose you to a lot of furious lectures from your father about how selfish you are. Don't do it. You'll regret it.

Besides which, it won't work. See? Here we are--32. Almost.

You're stronger than you think--a characteristic which will occasionally infuriate you, but which is nonetheless useful. You can do this. Six months. You're almost there.

4. When you're in University, you're going to buy a slinky lilac jersey dress and wear it out dancing. Don't. The black lights will render the dress translucent and you'll be dancing in a crowded bar in your underwear. Go ahead and wear it anywhere else, but not, gods help you, the dancefloor.

With much love,

Your future self.

p.s. Yes, you can pray for me if you'd like. Whatever helps. You're still going to be me one day.

Posted by Andrea at February 14, 2007 6:44 AM under Me

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