Life in a Year of Letters

A series - idea for a book, bit of fun - only got a few letters but it's something to work towards.

The opening:

Dear Reader,

As a child I observed my civilised teachers flutter around the classroom, and I watched politicians diplomatically meandering their way out of blame on the TV. I watched the grey sea of suit-wearing professionals sitting glumly on the tube ready to take on the ferocious world of London rife with its paradoxical miasma of banking wankers, glass, history, corruption and brilliance.  I also grew up around a plethora of very impressive family members, particularly female family members, who were not simply unmatchable company around a dinner table but incredibly successful in their careers. In other words, I watched civility, ‘maturity’, success, and responsibility and I linked them all to adulthood. However, I also grew up watching my parents occasionally dance naked in the garden to Dido in an oddly paganistic frenzy of drunken madness and on many occasions, listened to my much older cousins describe the questionable sexual experiences they had on lad tours to Bangkok. In a disturbing twist on conventional social custom, I can safely say that nudity defined my pre-teens. Reader do not report this, it was unproblematic. Anyway, I was confused, though not as confused as my cousin was on that Thai massage table, but confusion, yes, that sums it up. You see, I was given two entirely different images of what adulthood could be and as a child I thought that the richness of life would only come from being “fully formed”, so to speak. I really used to believe that the ultimate achievement of life would be knowing exactly who one is and what one wants and who one loves and that one would enter adulthood with one’s own polished hardback narrative consisting of a beginning, middle and an end.  Alas, reader, I am twenty-four years old, and I can quite frankly say that as a young adult I haven’t got a flying clue about what I’m doing, where I’m going or even who I am,  but then again people of 50 also face this very same problem. Perhaps the truth of it all is that we never stop learning and we never fully self-realise. Perhaps then, the stereotype of 'beginning, middle, end' is a myth and rather the story of the self unfolds infinitely towards death. Even then, we don't and can't ever know what happens to the soul.

When I told a very good friend of mine that I was planning to write this book she said, “oh don’t write a bloody memoir, you haven’t lived long enough”.  It is true, and honestly, I would hope to have at least another 50 years on this planet provided that my liver maintains its miraculous strength. She also kindly pointed out that I had not been born in the depths of Siberia and raised by tigers before trekking to Moscow and eventually Washington to make life changing policy. This would clearly warrant a memoir.  I, on the other hand, had a fairly comfortable (outwardly albeit) upbringing in North West London, which for reference, is full of glamorous mums in active wear walking their cockapoos discussing their two and half children at Oxbridge - not exactly thrilling. 

However, I also think that there is so much beauty in being in your twenties – with its endless rollercoaster of ups and downs, where you don't know whether to fall in love, pursue a 'girlboss career' or fuck off to Bali for a few months. There is something fascinating about sitting on this fragile brink between moody adolescence spent in sex-infused university halls and growing into one’s own person that has to go out into the complex world of genuine adulthood to do 'adult' things.  Although a wealth of experience awaits me, I have had such fabulous joy in the ever-evolving-process of finding out gradually what I like, who I love and what I want, though this will change of course, as life always does. Without sounding too much like a prophesising twat, I do think the way we attach emotion and thought to the smallest of things is a genuine triumph of the human condition and I humbly believe that it is this ability to give meaning to the minutia that has converted my life from one that is impoverished in terms of longevity into a life that is somehow incredibly rich in terms of emotional experience. The film ‘The Good, the Bad and the Ugly’ comes to mind; a good summary of life thus far and also an excellent film for viewing young Clint Eastwood. So, whilst I am perhaps yet to fully harness my experiences into a galvanised life story, what a marvellous montage of moments I have had. I am always amazed and inspired by the voracious kindness and strength shown to me by the strangers I have come across and equally astounded by how awful humanity can be at times. I am always slightly winded and overwhelmed by the love I feel from friends and family, the regret and wonder I have felt from romance and the hatred I have felt for myself at certain points in my life. So, in these 365 letters I simply aim to celebrate life for all its ups and downs and for the plethora of people, substances, places, phases, stories and objects that have enriched and contributed to my wild twenty-four years on this planet. More than anything, these letters are a celebration of people whose narratives, lives and stories have become part of my own story and my own way of thinking. Like a patchwork quilt, we are always adding to the fabric of ourselves, and so to give voice and credibility to these things is the least I can do. Thus, my dear reader, I hope to show you that a simple year’s worth of letters has the power to capture more than an average life’s worth of feeling, thought, wisdom and idiocy where lives and moments coincide to form a whole. I do hope you enjoy and yes, worry not, nudity will obviously feature….

Best wishes and do write back (see reply page),

Liv

The ‘Life Doesn’t Go as Planned’ Series

Letter 2: Dear nurse who birthed me,

Dear Laura,

I am commonly and uncomfortably reminded by my mother at dinner parties that I was a pain in the ass from the get-go. Pain in the ass is not quite anatomically correct in the context of birthing, but near enough. You thus play a significant role in birthing this ‘tremendous pain in the ass’ into the world. I’m sure you are honoured to hear such a thing! Given that my mother has a greater need to control matters than most prolific 20th century dictators you should understand that it was highly inconvenient of me to wish to enter the world any earlier than the exact date, hour, minute and second, she had in mind. I admit of course that choosing to bash against my mother’s womb whilst she was trying to enjoy a plate of noodles in a Chinese restaurant was a little inconsiderate of me but alas, I do love a dramatic entrance and my first one was aptly chaotic.  I have heard that my mother had made it very clear in her birth plan that she wanted a natural birth and you of course were inclined to follow that plan very clearly. So, I suppose I wish to apologise for the fact that my father ripped up that birth plan in your face and asked you politely to “get the f****ing drugs”. That can’t have been a pleasant experience for you. I am informed that you were then excellent and wonderfully efficient in aiding my entrance to world so thank you very kindly. I only write to you because perhaps my first lesson was learnt from the combined interactions between my mother, father and your good self. No, the lesson is not “when in doubt just take drugs” (although in recent years this has become a problematic catchphrase to say the least) but more a lesson that when one thinks one has a very clear idea of what one wants, even for the most significant and well-thought out of things, life really has a funny way of making one want the complete opposite. In other words, life changes and sometimes not sticking to the plan is the best possible thing one can do. Your immediate reaction and capacity to handle that change on a professional level also seems to beautifully capture that adjusting to those quick changes is also key to dealing with life when the curveballs are thrown and grown men scream in your face. What a glorious way of over-sentimentalising a fairly long and arduous birth! Anyway, I hope you are well, perhaps with grandchildren of your own and a mountain of shredded birth plans archived away somewhere in the library of births you aided. Thank you again!

Best wishes,

Olivia

Letter 3: Dear Mike, the man that threw me into a ceiling,

Dear Mike,

I take great delight in excusing my life’s worth of idiotic behaviour on this fraction-of-a-second incident that you were responsible for when I was 6 years old. Although I didn’t actually go into the ceiling, I am convinced that the thumping smack of my skull against the plaster must have had some effect on my current mental state. That being said, there is an implicit irony in the fact that I can remember this moment more clearly than any other point of my childhood. As I write to you, it is coming back to me in a cinematic montage of images; the way you threw your slightly heavier daughter gracefully into the air, her squeal of delight satisfying your paternally-softened-masculinity as you caught her lovingly in your arms. Laughter and joy rippled in the perfect sunlit room whilst adults sipped champagne and ate salmon blinis. It was a middle-class Eden until the fateful moment where you picked me up, the prawny little husk of a skinny child that I was, and threw me hence into the air like you had done the previous child. I was released from your arms like a sardine from a rocket launcher, blasted upwards towards outer space at a hearty velocity. The chatter continued but time stopped in your eyes as I kept going up and up and up until SMACK, BANG; the sound echoed in slow motion across the room like the ripple from a great nuclear blast. There was silence for a second followed by a series of wallowing cries. Your eyes filled with tears too as you poured out a million apologies. You were forgiven instantly and still are - people make mistakes after all.  An ice pack was strapped on the crisis zone that was my forehead and the party went on. I sat moodily in the corner with a lump the size of a second head forming but there’s a lovely lesson in this and it's one that I have transferred to my adult existence with alarming dedication. The lesson is this: we might be heading upwards in life, but it has a remarkable way of smacking you down just at the very moment you think you will never stop flying. Humility comes out of knowing this. Any time I have achieved, I think, “hey, you might be flying now but watch your head, don’t let it get too big and don’t become too carried away with the lightness that complacency brings. Keep grounded, stay heavy.”  I also learnt from this incident that most the time life simply goes on and sometimes you just need to suck up a knock and get on with it yourself because ultimately people will go back to their champagne and their blinis and their conversations in the end. They did all do this at the time if you remember and I was utterly appalled that one could drink champagne in the wake of such a disastrous assault on my skull! How utterly insensitive, I thought! Now I realise it wasn’t insensitive; I was alright, and the party rocked on. C’est la vie.  So, Mike, whilst my 6-year-old-self disliked you severely in that moment I now thank your bulky arms and kind, apologetic eyes.

Best wishes from me and my fully in-tact skull,

Liv

Letter 4: Dear Karen, the demonic nanny,

Karen,

To this day I will never understand why you chose to be a nanny despite disliking children so vehemently. Perhaps it was just me, though I was only 4 so it’s really hard to tell whether I deserved your dismal grumpiness and disinterest. I had always been a child that chased butterflies, the kid that saw a million patterns in the sky and thought leaves were the most beautiful dancers. Maybe that annoyed you. I know that my tendency to romanticize things in life and to be creative do still get under people’s skin from time to time but I was so young back then. Youth at that age should be all about seeing the world beautifully before one grows up to understand or experience the thousand reasons why the world is not so beautiful at all. I remember one moment precisely when you shouted at me in the grand palatial forum that was Brent Cross Shopping Centre because I despised lifts and the glass lift shaft we stood in front of was surely the greatest bane in existence for that young self that so strongly hated tiny enclosed transparent spaces. I explained to you rationally that I thought the cords would break and that I wanted to take the escalator. You were furious at me that entire day. You told my mother I was being pathetic and that I would never be able to get on a plane. Well, Karen: at the age of 14 I flew to Australia by myself and yes Karen, I still absolutely bloody hate getting in lifts. It doesn’t seem to have severely inhibited me in life other than making me climb an absurd number of staircases - strong thighs Karen, strong thighs. Unlike you I will never judge someone for their fears or attempt to make assumptions about their character simply because their preferences do not align with my own. Like life, people have a wonderful capacity to surprise you and to hold them in a mould that you think they cannot break is one of the grossest underestimations that a person can make of another. Sorry if I sound harsh, it’s just your approach to people and youth was so contrary to my current approach belief in people’s potential and my desire to respect them in spite of their irritating idiosyncrasies. Maybe you have changed a little, just as I have and of course, I still hope that you are well.  It would be interesting for us to meet now that I am a little older! Perhaps we could be quite good friends and hey, if you buy me a beer, we could even ride the Brent Cross lift together.

Kind Regards,

Liv xoxo

From The ‘Life can be a bit crap sometimes’ Series- TW (SH)

Dear self-harm,

So many jokes to be made here. You really had me on a knife's edge - we sailed on narrow margins, razor-thin, you could say. You cut me deep. Lol, I'll stop.

No, really, I hate to be sharp with you, but you’ve been rather sharp with me in the past (ok now I'll stop) so I’m just writing to say that you really are one hell of a demon to deal with. I remember very clearly the first time we crossed paths; I was 14, neck deep in misery and stress but felt that talking to anyone about what I considered to be fairly average qualms would just be a burden. In retrospect I was seriously minimising my problems and being deeply unkind to myself in the process. Upon carrying these horrible thoughts and feelings around with me I turned to you in a desperate and foolish attempt to quickly release what I was feeling. How needless. I could have turned to my friends, my kind teachers and my family but I didn’t, I turned to you with your bloodshed and your mild threat of hepatitis-B.  Honestly, you’re a real son of a bitch. You and your friend Shame often come hand in hand and boy did I feel ashamed of the scars you created and the damage that you did. I struggled with you for years. You were addictive, you were bleak, and I was foolish for thinking you were my only option. I did not deserve the pain I gained from affiliating with you. Sorry for writing so unpoetically but I still find confronting that feeling really difficult and I still get flashbacks of those pits of blackness, those quick graphic flashes, a slice, a slash, a split-second mistake - eyes closed - a release, a regret. They were always so fast - our interactions - and yet so painfully long. In all honesty, it was always the build-up to the act that was worse, like in Hamlet where the end scene of them all stabbing each other is just a standard catharsis, an underwhelming but explosive end to an extensive tragedy (too long I think, could have done without Act 4) It’s always the build-up though, the moral contemplation and the overthinking, that is the worst part. You were always just an endpoint.  You are so often either glorified or villainised - you are seen as attention seeking and you are seen as broodingly attractive. I despise both these attitudes. You are an embodiment of suffering and should be taken seriously for what you do to someone. You are also not spoken about often, and this too is wrong. I talk about you more openly now and I accept the damage that came out of our rather toxic relationship, but my God I do hope that we never meet again. I also hope that anyone who has had the same experience of you as I have had learns to be kind to themselves and fair to themselves as I am learning to do now. It takes time but we get there, we walk away and escape you in the end.

From,

Liv

Dear Moderation,

Who the hell are you and why haven’t we met?

I’ve heard from some people you’re really rather boring, but others say you’re quite a useful chick to knock around with from time to time. I really could do with having you in my life. I won’t say much more just to be innkeeping with your character - moderate. Would love if you got in contact with me - maybe not for another 2 years but certainly when I hit the age of 26, I’d love to have a lot more to do with you.

Kind and moderate regards,

Liv