Back to the Past, and Back to the Future

This may be the first piece of fiction I believe I have ever written. All of my my writing, at least what I can remember, comes from my own thoughts, and feelings. My release from writing, comes from writing about my own experiences.

The below piece is homework from a recent therapy appointment. 
I have seen a therapist since my Dad died in September, 2017. 

Just as my grief has evolved over the past almost 2 years, so has my anxiety. I have reached a point in time where by my choice, I was ready to deal with some of my underlying anxiety that I have never dealt with before. I addressed and admitted to, for the first time ever, eating my emotions. 

I felt my grief change and this metamorphosis start to take shape a few months ago.

My therapist has given me homework before, but she never followed through to the point of "did you do such and such" .. She always left it up to me whether or not I did what was suggested. In the end, it was I who would either remain where I was stuck or be helped.  

I told my therapist, and some others I confided in, I could pinpoint the beginning of my emotional eating journey, even down to the exact conversation I had with my Mom. I explained some breakthroughs I had discovered about when I was in school, where I could trace the beginning of my emotional eating to the 4th Grade school year, down to the conversation I had with my Mom.
"I am going to eat now to comfort myself and I will just worry and deal with it later" 
-- I was 10!!

The homework was to interact with the younger version of myself, the one that began emotional eating and comfort him. She said since she knew I could write, she was looking forward to seeing what I wrote the next time I see her (in a month). It terrified me and made me want to panic. In fact, I told her I was panicking and anxious during that appointment when she gave me this - I did not want to revisit that time nor that anxiety.

Back to the Past, and Back to the Future

I walked up to the front door, and even though I lived there for many years growing up, I felt like a stranger. I saw the unpainted wood colored screen door that I once slammed to scare the bejeesus out of my Dad and I smiled. Some things never change.

I went to knock, and then decided I didn’t need to – I wasn’t a stranger, I was returning home.

Everything was as I remembered it – my Dad’s desk and his green office chair directly in front of me.

The faux wood oval shaped dining room table.

The kitchen and the bedrooms, down the hallway to the left.

This young man, perhaps even a boy was there as I walked in, sitting and eating some cookies.

He smiled, but I could tell something was bothering him.

It was me.

“Hi, Jeff,” I said.

You don’t know me, yet. But you will.

I am here from the future to tell you it will be OK.

Things will be OK.

I know you worry about a lot of things, about your Dad and his health.

About school and those bullies.

About your grades and wanting to do well.

You are going to survive.

You will not be the loner, the outsider like you are now.

You will be respected for the knowledge and empathy and compassion you share with others.

You need to care of yourself.

You don’t see it now, but you are starting to develop the strength that is going to carry you through your years.

I know you told your Mom you were going to eat your emotions, and deal with it later, but its OK.

Its ok to be upset.

Its ok to cry.

Its ok not to be OK.

In the end, it will all be OK.

I promise you, you are going to survive things you don’t think you are capable of.

But that inner strength you are developing will carry you far.

You see, Jeff, I am you.

And you are me.

I can’t disown something that is myself, so I am embracing everything that makes me, me. Including you.

The younger me, got quiet.

“You’re Me?”

“Yes”

“Like Back to the Future?”

“Yes, Exactly. Remember that part where Doc Brown tells Marty that he can’t change the past and disrupt the space-time continuum?”

“Yeah”

“Well, that’s true. I know you are lonely, and scared, and those kids at school don’t make you feel welcome. But I don’t want you to change a thing. You see, because part of what are going through, and will go through – will make you and me who we are today. We will grow from this.  And although you might not get all of this now – one day, you’re going to be the man that comes to this door and comes in and has this conversation with a young boy.”

You’re going to help that young, boy, as I am helping you.

“You’re me?”

“Yes”

“WOW! Its like the older brother I always dreamed of wanting!!”

“Yep, you can definitely think of me in that way”

“Will you be back?”

“I don’t know for sure, but I can tell you – that whenever you need me – I will always with be you. Just put your hand over your heart, and think of what you want or what you are having trouble with..and know I will hear you and know what you need”

I kneeled down to young Jeff’s level and we hugged, as I rubbed the back of his head and told him we were both going to be OK. It was going to be ok to let things go. 

After writing the above, I wrote:
I was terrified at the idea of writing this. It took me a few days to build up the nerve to write. Sundays for me I call Soulful Sundays. I am pensive. I tend to write, reflect on what I miss more about my Dad. He died on a Sunday. One Sunday morning, I sat at the computer and the story poured out. 
 

As I began to write and interact with the younger version of myself, I started to cry as I felt his pain, his pain was my pain. It was awesome to be able to put into words my love of time travelling and to see our apartment as it existed back then, in every detail. Then, it changed along the way as I continued to write. I discovered I wasn’t writing to him – I was writing to me. I was telling myself its OK to let things go, and not hold on. What I was scared of, I actually ended up enjoying – helping the younger of myself. ME Helping ME.  

I enjoyed it so much, I am hoping/planning to write more along these same story lines.

I am generally a perfectionist, and I feel my art is painting a picture with words. I write something, and then I go back and add "this" or change "that" to make it "perfect." However, this piece of writing was different..The story itself, I decided (and refused) to make any changes. I left it as is, in its raw and untouched form. It is exactly as I initially wrote it. I had no urge to change anything. It was perfect the way it was written. It made me realize - so am I.