Dear Past Me,

The one sitting by an incubator in the NICU. I see you- I am you. Today was hard. A doctor with a brash attitude blindsided you in a room full of people. She told you to pull the plug- to abandon hope because even if your sick child does manage to pull through- the burden will be too great. Her words- not yours, not mine.

Dear Past Me,

It’s your first day of college sleeping under crisp new sheets in your bed in your dorm room. You’re listening to your roommates breathing softly in the dark, two complete strangers who have been randomly picked to become your best friends, the people whom you are to navigate through this scary change with. You’re questioning the first big decision your mom has not made for you: college.

Dear Past Me,

I’ve never written a Dear Past Me letter before. It never occurred to me. A Future Me letter makes more sense as I can store it away for you, me rather (Argh, confusing!) to read when you’re clearing out the cupboard, or that box under your desk where you put all the papers that have no proper place anywhere else in the house.

My hubby is stronger than me—I have no doubt about it—but he still likes to prove it to me. Now and then, he closes the lid of a jar tight, tight enough that I can’t open it again. In his defense, he is absent minded, but it still causes me a lot of stress.

Probably a polar bear was not a good choice
for my first attempt at whittling.
A hamster would have been simpler
and avoided the multiple leg fractures.
“Don’t worry, girl. No problem,” Mr Taylor said,

In school, people always assumed I was in a wheelchair because of an accident. And whenever I spoke up, the conversation stopped in its tracks. Like most girls, I had insecurities, but my insecurities are ones I could never hide from. I remember just wanting to fit in like everyone else. Especially when I hit middle school. Up until that point, I had felt like every other kid my age.

My name is Juliana Ruggiero. I’m eighteen and have Spastic Cerebral Palsy. My story begins in 1999. I was a fragile preemie who weighed only 3.10 pounds. My parents were not able to hold me. Instead, I was taken away to the NICU. I was on a breathing machine and closely monitored by a team of doctors until I was stable enough and my lungs were developed enough to function on their own.

I learned pain at the bench of the piano.
My shoulders taut with tension, black pulses pushing up the back of my neck,
knotting around my eyes as I sat upright, practiced my scales and arpeggios

Dear Laura,

I love you, my friend. I love that I get the chance to call you my friend. The special closeness we have is such a foreign concept to so many, and I will never take it for granted. We have been friends now for eight years. I don't remember what it was like to not have you in my life.

For E,

Can you remember our first time? We barely knew each other. Back then, we didn’t even carpool.

I’ve always hated mom dating - the elusive art of trying to make new parent friends. It is hard enough fully clothed and on land. What was I thinking inviting you to the pool?

Ladies wear makeup, party dresses, and shoes.
Like to paint their nails and wear stylish updos.
A life made by having lots of material things,
along with it, the stuff that style surely brings.

The other day, I pinched the skin around my navel between my fingers and thumb.

“What are you doing?” my husband asked.

“Channeling self-loathing into my belly,” I replied.

Fingers curled around the cold edge of the kitchen sink; I hold on with the hope that I can outlast the temptation radiating from a flimsy grocery store cookie box. Inside are five, ordinary, chocolate chip cookies that look more amazing than the ever-loving galaxy. I imagine my teeth sinking into the dough, dividing it cleanly into morsels of flavor washing over my tongue, sending streaks of pleasure up into my brain.

"Gosh you have such a pretty face."

"You are so tall, like an Amazon woman!"

"I am not sure if they sell clothes in your size, but we should be able to find something super cute."

"If you lost about twenty-five pounds, you would be gorgeous."

I’ve lived in southern California for almost ten years. I guess it was inevitable that I would end up in a plastic surgeon’s office. What’s a nice, southern girl like me doing in this plastic surgeon’s office, you ask?

Being mildly rattled by the official sign declaring that this practice has been licensed by the California Board of Barbers and Cosmetologists.

What are you doing?

My brain is foggy, I think my eyes are closed. Yes, they’re closed. He slides his hand down, under my shirt, under my bra.

He thinks I’m sleeping.

Are you are uncomfortable by what you see?
I would not be surprised.
We're trained to judge a body by what it is,
and what it is not.

It’s hot. I wear an old tye-dye dress and sneakers, my bangs stuck to my sweaty forehead. Photographs will later reveal I have the sort of bowl haircut stylists default to when you’re too young to know what you want, and your parents just want something cheap that won’t get gum stuck in it. I’ve come to a standstill on the sidewalk to watch a mosquito bite my bare calf.

I never felt comfortable saying “my body” or “the body;” it never felt like mine, yet it also seemed more personal than “the.” Growing up, it was commented on: You’re so skinny, so petite, what a tiny peanut, you should really eat more, better hang onto that figure. No one ever said anything about my 4.0 Grade Point Average, the poetry contests I won, or the dreams I had of escaping the life of expected bodily perfection.

Even in the musty Catskills cottage my parents rented during the summer I came of age, their bed was the place we went to heal. Even as tiny, satin ballet slippers hung from the mahogany headboard and a pink chenille spread covered it, like a sticky sweet frosting, this lumpy mattress was where we found succor.