I think about the past a lot, particularly the parts that hurt (you, too?). I recently started thinking of my memories as Magic 8 ball fortunes, typically housed deep in my stomach somewhere but often breaking away to surface with that wonky liquid dance of a fortune that says something like “Ask again later.” I also began feeling my feelings more thanks to reading Susan Cain’s Bittersweet in a time of ongoing suppressed feelings.
Together, these two exercises have borne a nice new mental tick: feeling protective of my younger self. Not in a miserable, desperate longing kind of way, but in a way that’s like, Dude, if I could time travel and protect her (and her friends) from manipulative people and toxic scenarios and financial ruin, I sure would.
I also reconnected with some friends, virtually, for a bonfire of the final shreds of hope we had in a mentor who, it turns out, was always already a disappointment (strong understatement) to all of us.
Feelings. But also, a better understanding of the past and myself. Certain things were not my fault, none of our faults.
I originally wrote a letter about how incredibly sad it makes me feel that I lost my cat, Pan, some years ago, due to my own negligence. I loved him quite fiercely, and the loss was abrupt and I had no idea what to do about it.
(Here is a video of Pan thinking. He flicked his tail in this jovial four-one pattern.)
I drafted a version of this letter where I wrote all the details about how I did not look for him, did not (in my memory) Google how to find a lost cat, and how puzzling that is to me now. But I am not genuinely interested in that investigation.
I’m now at a place where I’m more interested in the feelings I have about it now, and the thoughts, too (grief; Whit, were you okay?). I guess I wish I could be there for myself, then. My life, looked at one way, has been a series of phases that were much more difficult for me than I cared to acknowledge at the time. I felt I was already treading water, perhaps. Or I knew no different, perhaps. I don’t know; I’ve only just now acknowledged that I spent the past two pandemic years in survival mode.
I could probably figure out what was up with me then, however: I have loads of blogs I’ve depublished that are behind logins on sites like Blogger and Tumblr. I also have a Rubbermaid trunk of journals in the basement.
I like listing those things out, my archives close at hand. I genuinely have always felt that I was writing to my future self; to the person who had the time and space and autonomy to sit and figure out what this has all been about. I suppose I’m speaking that project into being right now.
This morning, I found one of my favorite photos of myself: I’m 4 or 5 years old in a baseball hat, oversized t-shirt, and fanny pack, passed out on the living room carpet in the front of the TV. My tiny toenails are painted red. My face has this funny swooping shape that looks a lot like my niece’s; she’s turning 4 in August.
The photo fell out when I was fetching a frame for a new Polaroid: Erik and me at his coworker’s engagement party on Friday. To prepare for the party, I pulled out a dress I’ve had long enough to know that my mom hates the way I look in it. At the party in my old dress, I talked to numerous people I have never met before. I volunteered to take at least 15 Polaroids for the board that we were filling with pictures and messages, both comical and sincere. I asked an acquaintance for their zodiac chart. I remembered how a party can be, a surprise of happiness revealed in our eager little smiles.