In the ongoing dialogue between the Me that I am today and versions of my earlier self, one outstanding feeling is of embarrassment. How could I have worn that dress, for goodness sake? Why on earth would I say that? Did anyone hear me, or worse, remember it? Does anyone have a photo of that disaster of a night out and which is going to appear on social media at any moment? Yet I sympathise, empathise, with these junior versions. They have melded into who I am.
Sometimes you read letters, or articles made to read like letters, from people giving advice to their younger self. Great advice. Sensible. It’s always to a person of fixed age, usually just starting out on independent living. The tone is kind, wise and reassuring. I can’t do that. I’ve been embarrassing myself since I was born, so Previous Versions skip between ages, each with its capacity to compromise dignity. Anyway, I wouldn’t have listened to good advice (thereby avoiding social calamity) at any age. Social calamity seems to be my default.
However, and this is a big However, I’m very fond of my Previous Versions. We cohabit. We are one. I love the determination of that 5 year old and the joy of being 8. I like the kindness of me at 11 and most of all I’m grateful to the soppy 16 year old.
Sixteen was the year I fell hopelessly in love with Dreamboat. (What a tosser, I later realised.) It was lovely to have a hand to hold and the status of being part of a couple. No one had ever felt what we were feeling. No one could possibly understand what we were to one another. We would be together for ever and a day. (etc) It was the Real Thing for about three weeks. Then he dumped me for a younger model in the year below us at school.
I was ashamed, upset, bereft, confused, hurt, angry – all the feelings you might expect a wronged ex-lover to feel. But there was nowhere to put this cacophony of emotion. Then came the tears. Sobbing, tearing cries from the soul. Wetness and dribble and mottled skin (not a pretty sight but at least it was in private). It was a fabulous release of all the feelings that couldn’t be named but which were damaging my sense of self. It was a real gift, this discovery of deep tears. I’d never been much of a crier – the odd injury, the death of my budgie, not being on the netball team maybe caused a few splashes but nothing like this emotional clear out. This was completely new and valuable information. It is a rare gift of experience which, used sparingly, still serves me well. Whilst I treasure the rule-breaking five-year-old and hold her close, it is soppy sixteen with her gift of tears that sometimes rescues me and keeps me embarrassingly sane.
