Writing Letters to Yourself

In the film Eighth Grade, there is a scene where Kayla (Elsie Fisher), is going through a box she made for herself on the first day of sixth grade that was intended for her to open toward the end of her eighth grade year.  Like so many adolescents, she fills it with things that are important to her at the time, such as photos of Justin Bieber and her hopes for how the future will be different than her current present.  This scene resonated with me in a big way, because every seven years, since I was thirteen, I have written myself a letter that is meant to inspire and time-check myself for the next seven years.  And yet, despite having turned 34 over a month ago, I haven't had the guts or ability to write it yet.

Like Kayla in the movie, the first letter I wrote was part of a school project.  In early seventh grade, my social studies teacher made us put a letter to ourselves in an envelope that we could then open senior year of high school  It's a neat project, even if a bit crushing depending on how you outlined where you'd be in six years, and upon re-read of this letter now, I am struck by the things that have changed and the things that I wasn't willing to admit to myself at the time.  I listed out a series of Oscar trivia questions for myself, as well as questions about the writing projects at the time I was dreaming of someday accomplishing.  What was lacking from the letter, though, was of course acknowledgement of any sort of romantic partner for myself.  While Kayla hopes that she'll soon have a boyfriend to reminisce on her past self with, at thirteen I both knew that I wanted a boyfriend rather than a girlfriend (keeping true to form, at that point I would have had a decisive crush on an older, redheaded guy named Josh), and that that wasn't going to happen by the time I was a senior in high school.  I grew up in a conservative town, and coming out of the closet felt like something that would be impossible...plus, the reality was at thirteen I was still praying nightly that this was just a phase, that I would be able to force myself to be straight or that the right girl would come along to change me from being gay.

But being self-reflective about my journey as a gay man feels natural to me now.  What particularly strikes me both in relation to Eighth Grade (which is terrific-I'll probably have a review out soon) was how reliant I was at the time on my own inner-world.  There was no list of my best friends at the time, despite the fact that I know that was required as part of the assignment, most assuredly because I didn't have any at the time...you could make a pretty sincere argument that I didn't have any close friends, period, at that time that weren't forced through my parents' relationships (where you have to spend time with kids your own age because your parents are friends).  I remember being 17 the first time I was invited by someone on the phone to hang out, something that hadn't happened to me before that since I was ten.  As a result, I cultivated an inner-world of books and movies and writing and stories that would arguably define the rest of my life in ways that nothing else ever could.  Friendships have always been hard for me to maintain as I'm a harder person to connect with than I seem initially, and it's striking to me to know that I understood that, at least subconsciously, at such a young age.

I found that letter seven years after I initially wrote it and decided to pen a sequel when I was twenty. At the time, I was struggling deeply with what to do with my life.  At the age of thirteen, I was only beginning to feel the effects of something that 9 years later a therapist would diagnose as depression. At twenty, though, I knew what it was even if I didn't know that I could reduce it or what could trigger it, and was struggling with my sexuality and the coming out process.  I wrote the letter to myself less as a time capsule and more as a message of hope to read when I was in dark times.  I read it now and am stunned by the ambition, youth, and hope of someone who was facing adversity and being tested daily when it comes to his mental wellbeing and a homophobic culture he was walking into with only a prayer that "it gets better."  I laugh in hindsight at some of those goals (always with the goals), and the thought process of what "old" looked like to a 20-year-old, but am so fucking proud of that kid for keeping a stiff upper lip when he could have so easily stayed in the shadows.

When I was 27, I decided it was time to write another letter.  I had a 7-year-age-gap on the first one, and thought it was appropriate to have another entry some seven years later.  I had gone through a lot at the time and was starting to come out the other side of it, though I honestly don't think I could have known that at the time.  I had given up writing, I was the fattest I had ever been, I had never had a real boyfriend at the time, and just moved back to Minneapolis after a failed experience trying to pursue a dream in New York City.  Coupled with my best friend having stopped speaking with me not that far prior (something I'd refused to address to myself as still haunting me at the time), and I am again struck by how hopeful I was at 27.  I don't know that I have ever hated myself more than I did during that time of my life, and yet the words on that piece of paper are brimming with determination and grit.

And unlike from 20 to 27, I did, in fact, make positive changes in my life after that.  I lost some weight and arguably look fitter now than I have since college.  I bought a house and built my career into something of which I could be proud.  I started writing again, creating this blog into a body-of-work that I still consider impressive even with minimal readership.  I left that tiny little apartment and saw New England, Hawaii, and took a road trip across the South with my mom.  I did, finally, have a real, true boyfriend (several, actually), and while I didn't meet the love of my life (or if I did that'd be news to me), I got to finally deliver promises to myself at 20 and 27 that they implicitly had asked me to do for them.  Sure there were goals left unanswered, promises unkept, but I tried so much harder and I think that me at 27 would be glad to know that goals were kept.

So why can't I write the letter now?  I think it might be because while I do feel like a chapter of my life is closing, I don't know how to feel about what will happen next.  At 13, I had a course set out for me by society (high school, then college), and while that was scary, it was obvious what needed to be done.  At 20, I was scared of what I was attempting to do, but again, I had decided to do it and had so much hope for the future, knowing that what I was doing was the right path.  And at 27, I was at rock-bottom; I was struggling in a way that I could explain, but that I knew could get better, even if it felt like such a deep hole to climb.

At 34, though, I don't know what the future holds for me.  I know based on experience that this might be it.  One of the most striking things about your life is not how much things change, but more how they remain constant.  I am 21 years older than that first letter, but I still love Oscar trivia, I still create my own inner sanctums and stories to get through this life.  I bought a house that I could theoretically live in forever, and have had the same job for 11 years.  I still see movies regularly and my passions & hobbies remain the same.  Honestly, while I have days where I hate my job or struggle with my appearance & finances, my life is roughly what I had hoped for all of those years....except I'm still single.

And that is the refrain that truly makes this letter different.  Loneliness has been a hallmark of my life, but in my adulthood it has largely centered on my lack of a romantic partner.  It seems silly to say this at this point (considering 27-34 was a far, far more successful dating venture of my life than 13-27 every hoped to be and as a result I should have more hope, not less), but I think what's holding me back from writing that letter is that for the first time in my life, I don't see promise on that front.  Not even the beckoning, "it-must-happen-how-could-the-universe-not-let-this-happen" hope that occasionally drove me back to dating even when my entire being said "I can't keep doing this."  I don't have the earnestness I did at 13 or the bravery I did at 20 or the determination I did at 27.  I have a fine life, it's just not the life I wanted for myself, and I don't know if I have the strength to make promises to myself at 41 that I don't think can come true.

I have months to write this letter (it just has to happen when I'm 34, according to my own arbitrary rules), and perhaps I'll find that strength & inner-calm required to write a letter to yourself seven years from now, promising things that will make their lives easier or better or fuller.  But for now I need to accept that I can't do it yet.  I have a fine life even if I must admit it's not the one I dreamt of, and am frequently happy with it.  It's not what I wanted, it's not even what I want right now, but I don't know if I can make it better or a great one.  Perhaps I'm going through a rough patch I won't be able to identify until I'm through it, and perhaps it's a disappointment to that starry-eyed young dreamer who wrote those past letters that I can no longer dream or believe quite as enormously as he once did.  I oftentimes feel like past versions of ourselves feel like old friends who have passed away, ones who we can't know the same way ever again but who always feel close to our hearts.  I hope that that old friend of 13, 20, 27, and the future friends of 41 & however long the good lord let's me keep writing these letters understand that I only want them to be happy, and that I'm trying.  I'm always trying.