week 28
forgiving myself for the times i’ve abandoned myself
There is someone I used to have a ton of fun playing with as a kid, who I looked up to and who made me laugh with his playful goofiness. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen that kid, though I fairly often see him as an adult, and the little kid in him feels so long gone under his appearance of serious doctor and competitive know-it-all. I don’t think the kid in him has completely vanished. I think it’s either buried or neatly tucked away for the environments we find ourselves in when we are together. I have held a lot of anger against him, and I used to think that it was my own competitive nature and the fact that I felt like I could never live up to his accomplishments in the eyes of our family. But I think the anger and resentment were just fragile masks for the grief I felt about losing the older brother figure who used to make me laugh, and feel safe, and feel like it was okay to be me.
When I woke up crying early one morning this week, thinking about our shared moments from childhood and slightly dreading needing to see the grown-up version again soon, I decided to write him a letter. I will never send it to him, but I figured maybe it would be a worthwhile exercise in processing my complicated feelings. Here it is.
Dear [you],
I miss you. I know it is hard to believe given the number of holidays and events that have recently passed where I have declined to see you. But I do. I miss the you that played games without needing to win. I miss the you that would put on funny toy glasses and dance around the kitchen to Swan Lake until I spit out water laughing so hard. I miss seeing and hearing you laugh— really laugh, rather than the closed version of laughter where you sort of smile and don’t let it all come out. I miss the you that was unafraid to be goofy and playful and real.
I think the version of you that now I only get to see— the “Dr. Dr.” version with the big fancy house and the ten thousand dollar Rolex— is bullshit. I don’t think this is the real you. I think that this is a dress-up version of you that you settle for as a stand-in for a real sense of belonging. I think it’s like a drug for you. I think the appearance of external validation and respect and admiration and even envy feels good in the moment and necessary to protect, like you can’t live without it, because without it you would have to face the possibility that your realest and truest self might not belong with the people you surround yourself with.
This might not be all true, or it might not be true at all, but it’s what I suspect. Because I have played the same futile dress-up games for accolades, over and over and over again. My game is undoubtedly less glamorous than yours, but every day I dress myself up as the helpful daughter, the giving teacher, the noble worker, when on the inside I just feel like the creative maverick that wants nothing but the freedom and space to make shit. I think you and I are the same, really, playing two sides of the same coin in a game where winning has earned us a fragile sense of self and a false sense of security.
I want more— no, better— for both of us. Maybe this rings true for you and maybe it doesn’t. Maybe you have relationships and friend groups where you feel like you can be your most authentic self and belong. I truly hope so. I also hope that one day we can both be the kid versions of ourselves again, together and in the same space. Regardless of when that day comes or if it ever does, I am going to choose to remember my favorite version of you, and to let go of my own bruised ego that could never compete with the “Dr. Dr.” version. If I squint really hard, I can see still that 10-year-old in you. And if he wants to come out and play, I’ll be here.
In writing this letter I will never send, I realized that part of me that was grieving the lost 10-year-old him was also grieving the lost 10-year-old me. It is the part of me that is so disappointed that I haven’t “figured it out” yet, that I haven’t wildly and consistently acted upon my most authentic impulses to catapult myself to where I want to go. Intellectually I know that there is no “there” there… That if I got to where I thought I wanted to go, the goalpost would probably have just moved to another spot. It’s not even the lack of artistic accomplishment that feels like a letdown, it’s all the times when I felt like I had to bend or shrink or hide myself in order to fit in with what I thought others wanted me to be, and gave in to that impulse rather than choose the harder but truer path of being me (or experimenting to find out what felt like the most me).
In examining this failure, I can not only start to forgive myself, but start to explore myself. In questioning why I’ve done things and looking at the history of my actions, I can avoid being doomed to repeat the ones that don’t serve my realest self. I can start to play “dress-up” for fun instead of for hustle, for the simple enjoyment of trying on styles and habits and projects that feel good rather than good enough to please others. I can find my way back to my ten year old self again, and ask her what she would like to do.