By chance tonight I happened upon some words of mine from a decade ago, scribbled frantically on a steno pad in multicolored inks. A month-long project dedicated to writing three solid pages of stream of consciousness at the beginning of each day. The dates of the entries were sometimes up to a week apart, but a heartfelt attempt was made at consistency. Back then, the beginning of each day meant struggling to pull myself out of bed, take my antidepressants, and drag my ass onto the bus that would take me to school or work at hours that contradicted the purpose of my medication. I did it, though. I got up. Went. Lived.
I remember that time of my life. Not vividly, but I do know I was determined to find what I was was looking for.
What did I write about? Mostly how hard it was to wake up in the morning. How much my body hurt, how much I hated running but did it anyway. How miserable it was to sleep in my boyfriend's bed and how much I would have prefered to be home alone with my dogs and cats. How obsessed I was with hockey. How I wanted to play, how I wished I could skate skate skate every day. And I wrote about dreams. Confused dreams about love. Dreams about ice. And dreams about crows. Hundreds of crows looking down and me reaching up to touch their feet.
Ten years ago I knew exactly what I wanted. I don't recall believing any of it would come true, and had no idea that, in fact, I was writing a message for the me I am now. I am amazed, confounded, and profoundly moved that the fucked up mess of a me in the past knew to leave the strong, stable, future version of herself a reminder that she does, in fact, know how to make her dreams come true.
I guess she wasn't so fucked up after all.
This is my entry for the #monomad challenge, held daily in the Black and White Community.
Give it a try.
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