Monday 5 September

Letter to my future self . . .

I think that’s what Malik said: imagine what you might like to remember, looking back.

So, sitting in the Oak Parlour for the last Wellness session on a comfy moss-green beanbag next to Kate and Clem, thumb-sisters, I listened as Malik recapped.

He spoke about being kind to ourselves and to other people, about finding our authentic selves.

He made a big deal about what Kate did at the formal, taking down PSST, and she said Clem and I helped, and we all clapped and cheered Kate. It got pretty rowdy.

Iris wasn’t there.

He emphasised again the thing about the standard you walk past. I’m going to really try hard on that one. And he talked about going easy on our families; everyone is probably just doing their best.

I think about my father, doing his best, facing up to rehab. I hope it works this time.

I’ve taken my time, and taken this assignment home; Malik said privacy might be beneficial.

So, wow, dear future self, what do you want to know, exactly?

You’re me, so I’m guessing – everything. That would take more than a letter. That would take a whole book.

Malik said to set the scene. So, here goes. As I write this letter, I’m:

Listening to: The Cure, my father’s favourite band when he was my age.

Feeling: Elated that I got into MCA. Also a teeny bit scared shitless. Just heard this morning. Kate and Clem and Max are coming over for a celebration dinner tonight. I’m making spaghetti carbonara. An early night so we don’t bug Clare.

Also feeling: Thrilled and shy about spending more time with Max.

Eating: I have made myself a big plate of nachos with loads of jalapeño chillies and guacamole, and, boy, is it good. Malik would approve of this mindfulness because I am truly living in the mouthful.

Sitting: In the living room overlooking the garden and it’s coming to life again after winter. The smallest clearest brightest leaves are out, and I love that.

Smelling: I’ve picked a fat posy of violets that smells so sweetly of itself, as sweet as a bagful of lollies, as sweet as icing on a cake, as sweet as the end of winter, as sweet as purple.

Feeling: Relieved. I had a proper talk with my mother last night. She’s proud that I investigated and prepared the whole MCA thing, and she said it was the best surprise. I told her stuff I’d seen, and stuff I’d heard, here, and she was honest with me and said to ask anything about Dad. She promised that nothing I did contributed to his problems. Adults were completely responsible for themselves. And she said that he thought having kids was the best thing in his life. We didn’t thwart him. We’ve made our ‘clear up the wardrobe’ date for Saturday, but it doesn’t have to involve any throwing out unless I want that. And there will be Figgy’s apple cake.

Topic for this letter: ‘Why Can’t I Be You?’ (Spoiler: I can be.)

Older me, I hope you’re a clothes artist for real, or another sort of artist, and that you love your days and you spend them dreaming and making things. Please be a maker. Be a creator. I hope you have a studio where the sun pours in, and you have a little dog with you while you work. I hope you live with someone you love, or love living by yourself with your doggie.

These are some things you learned when you were sixteen:

Family: Strangely, it’s a relief to have it all out in the open. The months of half-knowing everything was wrong and getting worse, and my mother pretending that it was all systems go, and me having to guess, or find stuff out from Clare, and pretending to my friends that everything was okay – they were the worst.

Even Charlie is at home a fair bit now, proof of habitat improvement. We just found out we can stay in our house, for the time being. My mother has organised a mortgage moratorium for twelve months with the bank, and she thinks she can probably get a job before then, so we might not have to sell up.

Sex: I – you (we) haven’t had it yet. Unless we count auto-sexuality.

Friends: It seems so simple it’s dumb, but it took you a while to get onboard – a friend is someone you can be real with. No games, no faking it, no showing off, no putting down, no power plays. Not cool or hot or mean or popular or fashionable or competing with each other. Just being true. And how that makes you feel is . . . relaxed.

Older me, please remember how great it felt to have real friends for the first time. Remember that it felt like something cracking open to give you the wider view, and more oxygen. Remember that it also, contrarily, felt like a nest where you were comfortable and safe and restored. Remember that it felt so loose and free when you could let your guard down and stop performing that popular girl version of yourself. I hope we’ve never had to perform that again. Bad for the heart.

Love to you from me X