Dear Diary, 27, A Love Letter

Dear Diary,

It feels weird writing a letter in a diary. What does it matter what we write and for whom? The historian in me says these context clues are the most important thing to know. Internally, my impulsive party girl counters with a "who the f*** cares... let's dance."

And my perfection says, "Okay, dance, but only after you write this letter." 

The letter is a love letter to my past self, recognizing all the good and bad times we experienced. I mean, it has probably been more bad than good. But even the bad times could have been worse.

There are a few moments that I would like to have back, particularly the ones that could have killed me or someone else. Those still haunt me with pings of guilt and shame.

But I am also where I am because my past self was able to hang on. There were times that I hung by a thread. And my grip was slipping. It would have just taken the slightest push, and I would have let go.

But I didn't.

It was not a perfect route, but I could not be in a better place now. I am writing with room to grow, things to learn, people to meet, and love to gift and receive.

Every day is a new opportunity to go out and spread joy radiating from deep inside. And it is all unintentional, organic chaos. 

So, thank you, Love.

Past Aspen would be so so so happy that I am feeling the way that I am feeling today.

I feel really sorry that (s)he suffered so 'cause she was a he at that time. And he was just miserably cruising through life, looking for the next distraction and escape. Many, and most times, that escape was quickly found at the bottom of a bottle, only to be regretted the next day.

The thing is, I think, past Aspen knew about the joy and delight that I feel today. Not to romanticize childhood too much, but the joy and love have always been there. I always felt it.

But past Aspen buried deep down inside. (S)he understood its value. (S)he knew its power, so (S)he also understood its fragility and vulnerability. (S)he knew hiding it was better than it being lost. (S)he knew the love could be corrupted and the joy co-opted for ends inspired by control, greed, and lust. So, (S)he hid it away when the anxiety, expectation, and perfection became too heavy.

So, I, or (s)he, lived with the joy and love locked away.

I didn't know any of this at the time. It just happened. (S)he protected my ability to love and experience joy. (S)he suffered for years and years and years, imagining that one day she would fit in enough and feel safe enough to let out what was buried.

And I owe her so much for the sacrifice.

(S)he tried so damn hard, and it never worked. Every time the joy and love became exposed, I got hurt in one way or another

I certainly appreciate those spaces and the people who created those spaces for those moments of freedom. Those moments inspired Aspen to hold on to life because (s)he knew something was out there. I knew something more was to be found.

Not necessarily something better, but just different. I understand now that love and joy do not make things perfect. The rainbows just help make things more manageable; the frozen sheets of rain, the chaotic atmosphere, and the sun's burning heat are all necessary for the rainbow to exist.

Today, I have just as many problems as in the past. But they are different problems, ones that I want to deal with. They are no longer the ones that I have to suffer through. Once found, maintaining identity requires accepting the change of that self through mindful impulse and graceful flexibility.

Sometimes, it almost feels as if I am strung out on joy and love.

It is overwhelming sometimes, but my spirit is Chaos. My spirit is Anxiety. My spirit is intense and drives my impulse and my perfection.

It is fantastic. And Scary.

These are the feels worth living for.

This is the moment that past Aspen was waiting for but could never figure out how to incite. And that is because it wasn't about making anything happen. It wasn't about control. Or mastering something. And it certainly wasn't about pushing the energy down.

It was about letting go.

It is about trust.

The last thing that past Aspen could do was trust. (S)he was too hurt and tired and confused.

But...

Past Aspen never gave up hope. (S)he imagined feeling the joy and delight that I would feel today. (S)he could never imagine the scenario where the joy, and the delight, and love would be released. (S)he just imagined the possibility.

(S)he created the potential so the future Aspen would not quit. Even in moments when they totally quit on themselves. Yet, as (s)he imagined something precious and good for the future, poor Aspen quit on herself in the then-present.

It could have ended really badly for all of us. And it was not great to experience, either.

The pain has left a deep scar that can never fully heal. It is traumatic knowledge that I will never be able to escape. But I don't want to escape. Not anymore. I am not mad that I have these scars. I am sad that I live in a society that does not recognize the damage caused by bodily repression and control. I am scared for others who do not have the privilege, material support, and just plain luck I have drawn upon.

But the sadness makes me want to love more and appreciate every moment I have now. It makes me want to live in protest against the injustice.

Love everyone who feels hurt, betrayed, or disowned. 

Don’t be brought down by the haters.

Past Aspen will never live again. Her time is gone. But (S)he survives in me. And (s)he helps me understand the difficulties embedded in transition and addiction.

It is so weird and complex. And I am just beginning to figure it all out. Here and now, in this moment. And I will never have it totally figured.

And I am okay with that.

I will not be okay if I lose belief in myself again.

And now, I am living to support the past and future Aspen by focusing on the present Aspen.

Maybe there is a lesson here, but I didn't write this to moralize or celebrate. All these words are crucial but meaningless.

So...let's go dance. 

Hey, Diary, was this a letter?

Or just an entry?

Either way...

Life is love.

Love is hard.

Life and love is imagined.

Love and life is real.

More to come, promise