Dear 2016 Alissa,

To be fair, I didn’t think you’d come this far. I had no idea you would do such stupid things with twenty-three guys. Here is the gold medal for being a slut, a very good one.

June 10, 1993

Dear Girl:

I saw a version of you today. She’s about your age and looks a little like you except she’s skinny and you are a miserable pudge. I bet she’s been living the life you live although you have cut out all the drugs by now. That near arrest scared the fuck out of you so now you have winnowed all your bad habits down to getting drunk every day. This girl slammed her car, going forty, into another car because she was high.

Dear Past Me,

I hate to be the one to tell you this, but those aren’t orgasms. You’ll learn this years down the road when you finally get your medication cocktail right, and discover you’re deserving of pleasure. You have a lot of learning to do, and you’ll get there eventually. Trust me, things will start to feel a lot better soon, and you won’t have to fake it anymore, even if, in your heart of hearts, you feel like it’s sincere.

Dear Past Self,

I wish I could’ve told you how much it hurts to have your tonsils removed.

Not as much as your cholesteatoma, chicken pox, shingles, or having an IUD inserted, but it would’ve been nice to be prepared to throw up blood constantly for two days.

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.