Hello, my friend! I hope this letter finds you well and enjoying your Monday. Can you believe this is the last one in 2019? It truly doesn’t feel possible to me to realize this much time has passed, that I’m this old and that we have actually arrived at this point in time. Sometimes I find my recent consciousness gained while living in this day and age intimidating – as if I started day dreaming sometime in 1984/85 and shook myself out of my vivid reverie in 2019 only to find I wasn’t daydreaming after all.
In recent letters, I’ve given you somewhat of an introduction to Nasty but I must admit that, even with two attempts, it has been lacking. In sharing the hotel incident, the power struggle between us, her sketches, the hotel incident and the journal entries I’ve found that show just how dark her days can get, I have given you pieces of her but I have yet to capture what she’s about.
Perhaps my therapist is right and she deserves a new name but that isn’t my decision to make because it wasn’t my choice to name her Nasty in the first place. It was hers. “Nasty” is what my mom used to call my genitalia. Throughout my childhood, I did not have a name or understanding for my vulvar anatomy and my vagina other than it being “nasty” and even using this epithet it was made known to be generally unspeakable by the way it was whispered when discussed (which was, of course, rarely). Nasty has always been the ultimate rebel with an insatiable appetite for Mom’s distress. So while “Little One” is a term of endearment from our mother, “Nasty” is a term of defiance back at her. She wears it proudly and earned it well.
I have decided that short of the whole “hocus pocus calling up the others to have them talk” thing, another way to introduce Nasty with you is to share some of what she has written (beyond self-loathing suicidal ideations) with you that might explain her better. If it seems like I’m spending an extraordinary amount of time boring you with this and you’re starting to wonder why I keep expounding on introducing Nasty to you, please be patient with me in doing so. I have boxes to unpack that will be difficult to do without having given you the context of what I know I will be finding inside the boxes – because I worry that without the context, my sharing will seem gratuitous and may shine a less than complimentary light on me/Nasty.
After leaving a counseling session with Jan this past summer, I met my friend YR for lunch. YR has been my best friend since kindergarten and, besides my son, she is the one of only two people around whom I have never felt on stage or like I was acting like I was good. That isn’t to say YR knows everything about me (because only God does at this point…even I don’t know everything!) but she has spent time with most, if not all, of my parts at one time or another over the years. While she has found me confusing at times, she has always just accepted me as just being a little weird at times but mostly wild and crazy. When I’m around YR, Nasty is usually the one who ends up in the driver’s seat as the most natural companion and so having lunch with her in June of this year after my session triggered a short switch during which Nasty wrote a note to Jan that I found a couple of mornings later. It’s nothing exciting but it’s interesting because it is a self introduction and, in my opinion, it reads as if it has been written by a teenage girl with some pretty good life advice to offer.
I’ve copied the journal entry below. I have a couple other things she has written also. I might include them in a future letter if I think they might be helpful in providing some “Nasty context.”
The noisy family in the condo downstairs is checking out tomorrow. I know this because I heard them yelling at each other about it this evening. I may take the opportunity to sleep in! Hope to chat soon.
June 20, 2019
I’m not the one who met with Jan yesterday. Having diner with YR is my first experience of yesterday and the day before that is someone else’s memory. I’m not sure I can “sign” this journal entry because I’m just me. I’m the same one that I was in high school who didn’t really care who liked me and I never really liked Mom anyway. I just keep going, ya know? Unsinkable and not suffering for it really. I’m never bored or lonely, even when I’m alone. I’m just obliviously okay. Maybe a little bitchy and often oblivious to other people’s needs or feelings. I don’t spend a lot of time scanning for other people’s feelings or states of being, so I don’t notice when they’re struggling. I was the one in the hotel room that night. It was messed up in a way and I know she gets worked up about it but I really did like being included that night. I wish he had listened when I said “no” and I wish my friend would have talked to me about it after, but I really just kinda moved past how it happened and bragged to one of my friends that I’d lost my virginity. I don’t know why things don’t bother me as much as they bother her but I really just kinda move through stuff without a lot sticking to me. YR is a big part of this…she’s my constant and loves me unconditionally and always builds me up and has never really walked away from me or deserted me.
Before I went to sleep last night, I was giving the last couple of weeks some thought about the depression and all. I hate the Taylors. I don’t like being around them and I don’t know why what they think matters now…they’ve always just been annoying people who tried too hard to act like they knew me but were really strangers. This whole rejection thing seems to be sought out…self-imposed. Not intentional but unnecessary, Why seek out acceptance from a group of assholes who have never really been something we’ve wanted to be a part of anyway? Who cares what they think? They’ve never really been anything but strangers…why care now? It seems like the rejection is really coming from inside…a rejection of self. I’m not even trying to get all up in this mix but lots of self-pitying going on and lots of looking around for reasons to feel sad and depressed. Will always find these things if you look around for them. And if a person is rejecting herself, how can she expect to be accepted by anyone else?
PS: I don’t have many thoughts or memories about Grandmother either, so there might be some truth to my suspicion I have “no fucks to give.” I don’t think I’m an asshole or nothing but I really don’t get too worked up about shit (or people). Except guys. lol