A Love Letter Found

An old friend from high school reminded me about this essay I wrote a long time ago. The funny thing is that quite a few people from high school have asked me about this piece through the years. I rediscovered the handwritten college-ruled essay in the move to San Francisco, and I’m kind of proud of what a much younger me wrote. A me that had already been scarred by a revolving door of fathers (four by age fifteen) and an absent mom. Who knew that I understood what springtide meant at seventeen? Who knew I had such great handwriting before laziness and writing on post its soured my style? It kind of shocks me that I knew myself so well because, in the grander scheme of things, I’m still that girl. This essay is like a seventeen-year-old me writing present me a love letter and a reminder of who I am.

I am a romantic. I love the softly blended shades of a Monet, the subdued tones of a morning dawn. I am enthralled by poetic words interwoven together to create continuous flowing emotions. I am entranced by beautiful music. I love the dreamy shades of gray on the stark spectrum of black and white. My favorite movies are old musicals where happy endings are not possibilities but realities. I have dreams of a Prince Charming in my future.

I am an idealist. Bad things may happen, but life goes on and you’re a little better for the bad times. The bad times are necessary to value the good ones. I have the dream of a time when every person will have a reason to be happy.

I am emotional. I love to yell and be passionately angry. I enjoy laughing at nothing and being supremely, unmistakably happy. It is a wonder to feel pain and empathy. It feels so right to cry when exuberant and to sob heart wrenchingly when grieving. To feel and experience is nothing short of miraculous.

I am of high expectations. I want to grasp life tightly in both hands and squeeze all I can out of it. I want success and will settle for no less. I will achieve.

I am a feeler. I love the sensual feel of silk, the crisp, coolness of cotton. Scratchy wools and smooth velvets are things to be savored. The textures of the things I touch bring with them memories of other things I have touched.

I am heart-whole. I am healthy of mind and body. People often scratch and tear at the essence of who I am, but I guard myself jealously. I save who I am for those who will cherish me and recognize what a gift I give them. I allow no one to take more than I can give readily. I care for myself deeply and respect myself before all others. I am able to heal the scars of my own heart when it is necessary.

I am seventeen and of a dying breed of people. I am a dreamer at the springtide of my life.