Article by Addi Schwieterman Art by Alex Wollinka

Dear Me,

As much as I don’t want a letter from you, you don’t want a letter from me. And if you ever tried to mail something through the fabric of time, I would definitely send it back. You’re probably more likely than me to figure out how to send things through time, but you don’t know my address.

When I think about it, you’ve already figured it out. Write something that you’ll forget about for a few years and then I’ll read it on the specific day you’ve planned in advance, reeling me in with the opportunity to know exactly what I was thinking years ago. But I have no chance to do this time capsule letter for you.

From time to time you cross my mind. Endless nights in your bed surrounded by the piles of clothes, dishes, papers, spilled shampoo, blankets, and wrappers. The weight of shame stuck me to the mattress, as I promised that tomorrow I’d finish my homework right when I got home from school, go on a run, clean my room, wash my face, brush my teeth, finish my laundry, shower, and fall asleep without YouTube echoing in the background. I wince when all these scenes flood back, pleading that I’ll never let that part of me reawaken.

I feel big when you sneak into my mind. I can imagine us sitting in a car together, driving. Sisters almost. You admire my horizontal license and I insist you eventually kiss boys and don’t spend so much time thinking about food. I explain you accept the old parts you used to hate about yourself but find more complicated things to become dissatisfied with. Things like how you treat your friends and if your mom knows you love her. If you are just jealous or if he’s a douche. If you are working too hard or if everyone else around you is working harder in secret.

I read that letter you wrote me in the eighth grade. Sitting in our bedroom on the floor, I found it tucked away in one of our bins of treasures. It was long and elaborate. A water-colored front with lists of prying questions. Have you had your first kiss? Who are your friends? Where are you going to college? Did you stay in shape? You allude to the last one a lot, in many ways. Did you stay in shape, make sure to stay in shape, don’t forget to workout, are you in a sport during all three seasons? It’s strange what you focused on.

The walls of our room are bright blue, with a gold chevron accent. Summer is here and you sleep with your window open and wake up whenever the sun becomes unbearable. Up on the wall across from the window is a poster you made on trace paper with the word “FIGHTER” written across it in big pink letters. Fighter? Fighting for what? All the wrong things. Turned pages of Seventeen magazine reveal the headline “Summer Abs: 20 minute workout.” Thank your dad for getting you the subscription to the magazine. How could he know what’s inside?

In our high school parking lot next to a boy you don’t like very much. He has thick black hair and a shitty disposition. He always thinks he’s right and what makes it worse is he usually is. There’s nothing to do right now but sit in cars and later you’ll make out in the back seat despite your lack of enthusiasm. Say it. “I don’t know if college is the right decision for me.” He thinks you’re stupid now. Let’s face it, he always thought you were a little dumb.

Sit at the desk our dad built into your closet that you feel guilty for not using as much as you had idealized. Mr. Wylde announced to the class all work needs to be turned in by the end of the weekend for it to be graded. He’s still missing some essays from January. He stands behind your desk and tries to discreetly mumble that you need to turn in your essay that’s now three months late. It’s Sunday night. You’re confused why it’s been three months of promising yourself today would be the day you finish it, since you are confident in your abilities to methodically connect the lines of Macbeth to the motifs you wrote on the inside of your front cover. Something held you back those three months. In your mind there’s a word for it that likes to shuffle around until you're asleep. Lazy. But it's different than that. Unfortunately, you don’t have a professional to declare it.

You sweat through your shirts in the winter and wear men’s jeans to parties. The laundry in the washer is yours and it’s been there for five days. Hours in the bathroom haven’t fixed your hair or skin or the asymmetry of your face and everyone thought your best friend was hotter than you. Shorts ride up in between your thighs and you can’t explain why you are wearing a one-piece suit again. But you put in a half-assed attempt at convincing yourself it might get better.

We lost control by the end of high school. Couldn’t keep up. You hated every second of the day. I wouldn’t take any of it back. I love you in an endless way. As much as I don’t want to return to her I wouldn’t erase her. She reminds me to be nice. Stuck to your bed, staring at the sunset from your high school parking lot, I still love you. If I could, I'd come back to you. Through the sky. Past the clouds and stars, sucked through a purple blue void of silence back down to you. I could come as the wind and whisper it in your ear. Wrap around your head and melt into your mind. Write a letter and leave it for you. If I could, I would convince you then that it was all ok. You were a good person even when you gave up.

But you’d think I was lying. And when you got that letter, you ignored it. I know this because you did. People explained the contents of the letter over and over. Remember driving back from school while Mom pleaded with you at the red light that you could achieve something and fail at the same time? In your best friend’s room where she illustrated how each part of you was meant to be. Now I just feel tinges of pain and a slow reconciliation that maybe they were right. Maybe you should just try. Let beady eyes watch you fall and feel the disappointment of your failure.

Look at yourself.

Some days it’s all too familiar. All the problems, all the same. But there are feelings I still haven’t outrun and new roadblocks that reveal themselves as I am further and further from your bright blue walls and essays on Shakespeare. I know in 10 years I will love who I am today. And if I focus, I can see her thinking of me. I can’t get rid of the misery you experienced but I can promise I love you despite it. And even if it’s not immediate, we will love ourselves endlessly.

Sincerely,