dear me

Dear Bright Eyed, 23-year-old Angi,

I know you. I mean, I remember you...sort of. Congratulations on graduating college and on getting married! What a big year it has been. Maybe the biggest of your life so far! 

First, I want to say, I haven't decided if I'll send this letter to you. You see, you're so...tender. So innocent. You haven't experienced the world. There's nothing but blue skies.

Second, if I do send this to you, will it make you sad? Will you be depressed? When you flatten it all out into one story, it does seem rather morose. Is it better to not know? Part of me thinks it is.

Because if I tell you all of the things that are about to happen in your life, the next 12 years, Jesus fuck girl, it's a lot. In the same breath, it's a lot of triumph. No, you're not unscathed. You're scarred. Literally and figuratively. On the inside, and the outside. A physical scar will develop on your optic nerve, in your brain. It won't kill you, they don't think, but you'll lose part of your vision, and eventually, you may lose the rest. A second scar will develop on the other side of your brain, and you will have to learn to walk again. An emotional scar will hug you like a giant blanket. It will muffle out the sound. Numb your feelings. Dull your shine.

You'll make new friends, lose ones you thought you'd have forever. You'll learn that all friendships aren't like your childhood best friend, but in the end, you get her back too.

Remember how you wanted ten kids? God, you're an idiot for that.

You have one. And he is the most perfect child that was ever born. And you'll be there when he's born. But you'll stand next to the bed, because he won't be born from your body. Because of more scars. And oh yeah! Good job picking your husband. He's killing it. He has been there for you, and loved you at your ugliest moments. He has the strength to carry you, and he does. He stands next to you by the bed when your son is born. He cuts the cord.

Through your pain, and knowledge, and stubbornness, you'll make it. You won't be blessed with one child, but two. Only, one will go back. And that leaves a scar that is the hardest to heal from. It's probably technically, still a wound.

But my (our?) point remains. Scars don't change, but rivers can divert, and paths can turn into roads.  

Because for a while, on a few different occurrences, time does stop. Then you look around, almost from above, and you really see who you are. And what is inside of you. And the scars aren't so ugly. After a while, they even blend in. But they never leave.

Shit is about to get real, fast. You're going to do more growing and learning than you ever expected. And I know you don't think this is funny now, but someday you are going to laugh your ass off at yourself for thinking that your wedding would be the most stressful thing in your adult life. That party you threw with the cake and food? You thought that was hard. 

Better buckle up.

A