Letters in the Closet

Day 1 - July Seventh, 2013

So, um... What's this again?
What did Mum recommend this for?

"Writing out your feelings might help you feel more accepted. Write them to a different version of yourself."

What did she mean? To me, in an alternate universe, or to me in the past? Or to me in the future? Mothers should specify these things.

I suppose I should start with who I am. Which is stupid, because I am writing to myself. Unless my future self is an amnesiac, which is highly unlikely.

My name is Giselle Reynolds.
I am fifteen years old.
I, alongside my mother and brother, live in Queensland- a northern state in Australia.
My father lives in California, and I hate him for abandoning our family.
I'm an introvert.
I'm clumsy.
I'm a nice person if you get past my bitter expression, and bitter speech, and bitter shyness, and bitter choices.
I'm gay.

But you already know that, obviously. Giselle Reynolds, you are probably twenty-something years old and looking back through these letters, thinking, "damn, past me was queer".
Which is ironic and rather funny, because I am queer. And you are too.

Oh, wow... I'm so cliche. Oops. Let's start this again.

So today Ty tried to get you to come out to the class. And you have probably already come out to the class, smart girl, being so open about your 100% gayness. But I have NOT, because I'm shy and only a junior, only fifteen, I'm not you, gorgeous. Not yet.

You told Ty no, he was a douche for asking you to do something like that, and he should go get stuffed.

But you forgave him because he's your only friend at this point in time. And he bought you a rainbow cupcake, cutie, if you were straight you might've dated him. Er- if he was straight, too. Damn, at least the boy's open. He's not bugged by the opposite gender.

Whatever.

After he bought you the cupcake (cream-cheese frosting and a hint of berry in the cake itself, he still knows your favourite) he took you to the beach. You didn't swim, obviously, you'd left your bikini at home, as it's not something you'd just take to school. But you sat on the sand for a while, licking cream cheese from your lips and rubbing sand into your legs. Exfoliating, because right now, you're kind of obsessed with it. No more dead skin, but soft and beautiful,

And then he asked you when you figured out your sexuality.

The conversation went like this-

"I think I was seven."
"What made you realise you liked girls?"
"Huh... I guess it was because all of the girls around me were giggling and blushing around boys, and I wasn't. Not only that, but my friend Anya made me really happy. And nervous. And eventually, when I moved schools, I realised that 'hey, guys aren't my type- I think I'm more into girls.'"
"How comfortable with it were you?"
"Jeez, Ty, you sound like my mother. But I wasn't comfortable, I felt weird and abnormal and I still do."

Ty kind of- looked at you weird. Then he smiled, and ruffled your hair.

"Don't worry, Gis. I'll help you feel better."

And then you stood up, brushed the sand off your thighs and skirt, and walked home with him.

I don't know if you're still friends with Ty or not. But I hope you are. He's the nicest friend an introverted teenager could ask for. He's accepting, and makes you feel better about the parts of you you hate. And it's not awkward, since you've known each other for so long.

Your conversations right now are usually along the lines of-

"Ty, why are you blushing?"
"No reason."
"There's a reason and I want to know."
"Well- this guy in the band, he's really cute... And I kinda like him. Maybe. I think."
"Aw, that's adorable. What's his name?"
"Wil."
"Niiiice."

"What about you?"
"Me?"
"Yeah, you. Any girls?"
"I still think Victoria's nice. She's a good person, but I'm too shy to say anything."
"I'll help you."
"You'll be my wingman?"
"I'm not making a fool of myself for you, but I'll find out some things. And I'll talk you up."
"Don't say anything that isn't true."

"Only the truth. That you're smart and adorable and like the colour pink."
"Thanks."
"You are one hundred percent welcome."

I probably need to sleep. It's eleven p.m. But tomorrow's Friday, and we never, ever do anything on Fridays, so maybe I can write just a few more sentences. And maybe I can ask you some questions. Not that you can answer, being from the future (past? I'm not sure yet) and all.

Are you still single? Do you still love painting your toenails at six in the morning, letting Viarr curl up in your lap? Do you still have Viarr? Does Mitch still tease you about your height? Does he still say 'look at my little sister, she's so tiny'? Does Mum still cry about Dad?

I don't really care what the answers are, but writing them out feels a little... Nice.

I'm going to go to bed now. Not to sleep, just to bed. Maybe YouTube has something to offer.

Goodnight, Giselle Reynolds of the future. Or past.

~Giselle Reynolds (of the present)