Dear Future,
Growing up, I wrote letters to my future self about once a year. I think this began in 6th grade, suggested by a school program, and the idea of writing to a version of me that had the answers was addicting. In a poorly concealed box on my bookshelf, I shoved letters with my worries, questions, and occasional details about my current life into an envelope and let time give me the answers.
Opening these letters in the future feel like connecting to a time capsule version of myself, and they remind me that time and process are really what give us perspective. I returned to this idea recently, and thought it might be a good way to format a series of essays. I’ve never written personal essays…so I don’t know what I’m doing or if this even counts, but here’s a letter to the future, from me.
9/18/22
dear future,
In my Brooklyn apartment, a roach just flew over my head, seemingly from nowhere, and landed on my bedside table. I promptly sprayed the life out of it and tipped it into the toilet. Its legs were sortof dainty. Ballet-like. Last summer, there were biblical rainstorms. I waded through mysterious NYC water, ankle-deep, and climbed along scaffolding bars to keep my legs dry, and when the storm cleared, a rat lay across the street, drowned and wet. I crossed the street with J. “The lord giveth and the lord taketh away,” I pronounced, thinking of the way the rainstorms had swarmed, of arcs, and pairs of animals marching 2 by two.
Since my last letter, we have indeed been plunged into a world of more shaky reproductive rights, and I have vowed, many times over, that I won’t raise children here. I haven’t done anything to facilitate a life change, but I’m not certain that I won’t. I’m not certain about much, obviously.
I think up until now, I was tackling my 20s like a project. I saw these years as foundational paving stones for the rest of my life: for becoming a mother or something adjacent to that. I thought that if I planned and made enough lists I would be able to container-store-organize myself into the life of my dreams. Maybe it would be possible, but also maybe I would just be a sad person with a lot of lists and only memories of making those lists.
When I think about the version of myself with too many lists and not enough experiences, I get itchy. I want to spend all my money on things and feel dramatic and drunk and messy. I want to buy a sheer pink dress for 150 dollars off of Etsy and get a nose ring and a mullet. (They are very in right now, anyway, so don’t laugh). Other times I want to feel like a hot yoga instructor. I want to wake up in the morning, unbloated, and enjoy drinking a salad. At least I want to want all that.
Actually, though, I just wish I could have a single accurate thought about my wants and needs. I’ve been thinking about the recent discussions in the social zeitgeist on Intuitive Eating. The idea is pretty simple and weirdly revolutionary. You eat what you want when you’re hungry and stop when you’re full and trust your body and mind to communicate.
I wish that I was taught intuition. Not just with food but with life. I want to eat life until I’m full and then stop. I wish I could listen to myself, instead of the world, so that I didn’t have to turn to zen women on the internet as an example. I do want to make choices based on my feelings and interests. In college, I joked that all activities, social or academic, were equally uninteresting to me. (Yes, I was depressed). Also though, I think I said yes to things without considering if I was going to enjoy them, which eventually led to a malaise of disinterest about everything.
I told J.B. that my goal was to live more intuitively. I thought I sounded embarrassing. He said, “I love the way you think.” I thought that might be the best compliment I’d ever gotten.
Honestly, most of the time I am too distracted to listen. We still talk about our jobs. I work for 28 days at a time without a break.
Sometimes (often) I look at myself in the mirror and think: pull yourself together. I think if only I could balance myself then I’d become the best and happiest version, and maybe there’s something to that.
I’m thinking about Moshfeigh’s My Year of Rest and Relaxation, where the main character tries to medicate herself into hibernation for an entire year. I can imagine how, waking up after a dormant year, your brain might be quiet, and you could see a way forward, unobstructed by exhaustion.
