Dear Self,
How are you? I’m sure you’re happy.
Because I am.
Maybe this is the four-thousand-and-seven-hundredth time I’ve written to you. But this letter — this is the first one addressed to you that is open for everyone to read.
The first of many to come.
I’ve lifted the veil.
Today is February fourteenth. Valentine’s Day.
Eleven years ago, on a Saturday like this, I knew how broken you were. You felt so alone. You felt like the world was closing in on you.
More than the broken heart you nursed, something inside you died that day. Your so-called friends betrayed you. They turned their backs on you.
You had to save face. You fought the tears from spilling down your cheeks. You waited until you were safely locked inside your room before you allowed the dam to break.
It wasn’t weakness, self.
In that moment of vulnerability, I saw the goodness of your heart. The hope that was crushed. The light that felt snuffed out of you.
And yet, despite everything, you remained vulnerable. You still opened your heart for the chance of finding true friendship. You poured those emotions into your craft. You spent nights brainstorming ideas, redirecting every ounce of energy to mend your battered heart.
Mama and Papa remained supportive of every endeavor we chose to pursue. Jen is working now. Jea is finishing college this year. I’ve gained friendships that have stood the test of time, isolation, and distance.
Somehow, the position for the love of my life remains unfilled. But one thing is certain: I’ve learned to unlearn most of the grudges. I’ve learned to accept things as they are. I have so much more to give now that I love myself more.
I want to give life to the stories we’ve created throughout the years. Slowly, I will release the poems you were once too ashamed to share.
Silly.
I think they were beautiful.
For years, I told myself to put that dream — sharing our work — on hold. I kept saying I would edit the stories tomorrow. Proofread the poems later.
Then one day, I woke up.
Later is an excuse.
I don’t want to waste this lifetime. I don’t want another life… another universe. I want this life. I need to put these works into the world in this lifetime.
And what an epic way to rewrite this day — the fourteenth of February. To turn the saddest day of your life more than a decade ago into one of the most pivotal moments of ours.
We are reclaiming our narrative.
I will make your visions known.
After all, that’s all that has ever mattered to you — another girl reading something you were brave enough to write.
All my love,
Joy Clarice