Disclaimer: This page is a constant work in progress. It is here to help me get to know myself, and allows you, my reader, to follow along if you will. I might update three days in a row, and then leave it for a month. Who knows. And it will probably wind up being very, very long. Bear with me. Or don’t – you don’t have to read it all. And I won’t take credit for this lovely idea; I never would have thought of it if it weren’t for Cory Copeland and his site.
I don’t know who you are yet, and you don’t know me. I hope we meet one day soon. Perhaps we’ve already met, but haven’t recognized each other yet. I’m writing this letter to you as a girl, as a woman, who dreams, and who also reads blogs… and runs one. This idea is not mine, and I shan’t take credit for it—I stole the concept from a beautiful blog that I follow known as To My Future Spouse. When you read this letter, perhaps I will already have shown you the site. Or perhaps not. I write this to you so that you may know the worst of me, and perhaps get a glimmering of the best of me as well. Consider this a cheat sheet to my inner thoughts. Use it all you want. It’s yours.
I’m sorry I’m at my best, creatively speaking, late at night. I hope you don’t mind a night owl as a partner, because try as I might to go to bed early and rise earlier, I always wind up writing my best at one, two, or three in the morning. I hope you can sleep through the sounds of my fingers clacking away at my keyboard. I hope you don’t mind the glow of my screen. I’m sorry if I wake up with a start and have to run off and boot up my computer. I’m sorry if I tune out of our conversations sometimes to stare off into space. I have so many worlds in my head, and sometimes they collide and get mixed up. I hope the scent of the coffee I drink in copious amounts doesn’t wake you up. I hope you don’t mind half-drunk mugs of it on my night table. And if it does bother you, I hope you’ll be able to understand all the same.
I hope you’ll be the kind of man who will sit up, pass a glance over the papers scattered over our bed, the computer humming on my knees, the coffee on the night table, see my hair up in a bun and my eyes rimmed in red and my brow scrunched up in concentration, and caress my cheek, kiss my forehead, and then turn around and go back to sleep. I hope you’ll know not to bother me when I’m on a roll, because I don’t want to bite your head off. And I hope that once in a while, you do break me out of my haze, give me the chance to snap and rage and focus my thoughts on you instead of fictional characters. Because I will want to focus on you. I will love you. I have no doubt about that. I will love you with all of me, second only to God.
I’m sorry in advance for those moments when I wallow in self-pity. They don’t normally come all that often, but when they hit, they hit hard. I hope you can tolerate it, maybe even join in for a bit, and then know when to stop playing along, when to leave me alone, when to tell me to snap out of it. I hope you’ll be able to speak to me truthfully when I have these days. I hope you’ll be able to speak to me truthfully always. I hope you will have days where I have to coddle you, instead of the other way around. I’m not afraid of male tears—though I probably will have a limit, where I will tell you “Enough!”
I hope you will learn to listen to my words, for they are rarely rash, unless I’m angry. When I’m angry, you will have to learn to forget the insults thrown at you. I will work on curbing my tongue, and I have gotten better than I was at sixteen, but the venom still spills once in a while. But you need to know that I am not afraid to come to you once our fighting is over and apologize for those things that I didn’t mean. I won’t, however, apologize for those things that I did mean.
I feel, all the same, that I should add an apology for the quips that come out of my mouth. I tend to say things sometimes, that you may take as insults or disrespect, when I truly don’t mean them that way. I have a tendency of letting slip my thoughts in relation to other people when I’m talking to someone, and it can seem directed at you. All you need do is ask me, and I should be able to explain what I meant, and to whom it was directed. Please don’t let the feelings of hurt and resentment that may arise build up. I will work on curbing that impulse.
I hope you will see past my initial coldness, that instinct of self-preservation that I cannot seem to shed. Some people are blinded by the layer of frost that covers my heart, and fail to see the warm, glowing hearth beneath it. So many people have been blinded, in fact, that I often wonder if perhaps that hearth hasn’t gone out.
There is a terrible cynic in me, love. A jaded old woman of eighty years with a smoker’s rasp and crippling arthritis, and she won’t leave me alone. She whispers in my mind of the things people have done, of the crimes I have committed. She hates everyone and everything, and she insists on sharing these views with me. Sometimes, I cannot see the world clearly for her outlook. But there is also a young child, who sees wonder in everything around her, and beauty in all those that surround her. This child trusts everything anyone could say, for who would willingly set out to harm a person? You need to remember these sides of me, for sometimes, I can’t.
Know that in the beginning of our relationship, I will seem utterly bewildered by any physical affection you show me. Know, also, that I will not only seem it, but in fact be utterly bewildered. In my world, there is not much of that sort of affection. There is affection of the mind, certainly, and affection of the heart—though they may seem tepid to others looking in. But physical affection is something that is not present, for the most part, in my life as I live it now. I would hope that you would be determined to change that. I have the potential to be very affectionate, that I know. (Mind you, not the sickening, get-a-frickin’-room type of affection most couples seem to find so endearing.) But small touches, and gentle looks, and sweet kisses when we’re alone… That, I have an instinct for. I have a need for. But I won’t know how to express myself in the beginning, so you might have to be patient with me while I figure it out. Remember, also, that I have a rather steep learning curve. I should figure it out quickly enough, especially if you are willing to supply a helping hand.
I hope you’ll be able to laugh at my terrible eating habits. I sometimes forget to eat for the entire day, and then, when I remember to eat, I’ll eat something horribly unhealthy. I also hope you can cook, because I can’t; although I’m sure we can survive on salad and sandwiches and takeout if you can’t either.
I hope you’ll be able to be alone while I spend hours with my nose stuck in a book. Yes, love, I’m one of those. My room is littered with them, and my mind is, as well. You won’t be able to pull me away, for the most part. Maybe we can cuddle on the couch with warm socks and a couple of books, and spend our Sunday afternoons that way. If you’d rather, you can have the television on low instead of a book. But I hope you’ll pick up a book once in a while. They’re so lovely.
I hope you can tolerate my insecurities. I hope I will be able to shed them when I am with you. I hope I will forget about my ugly scars, and my imperfect body, and my trust issues, and just be comfortable with you in all ways. And I ask you, please, never to put your hands around my neck, even in jest. Perhaps I’ll explain that one to you in time.
I’m sorry for my streak of selfishness. It calls me to push people away in order to save myself some pain. And the greater the love, the greater the potential for pain; so it is likely that I will push you away the hardest of all. You need to not give up hope, love. Always remember, the harder I push, the more terrified I am, because the deeper I feel for you. Maybe I’ll have gotten over this need by the time we come together, but somehow I doubt it. I think you will need this word of encouragement from my past self in order to conquer my present (future?) self.
Conquer… yes, an interesting word choice, isn’t it? But I think you might truly have to conquer me (or, at least, conquer my fears). While I am all for female equality—just you try to treat me as anything other than your equal—I believe you might have the task of helping me to overcome my doubts and fears, no matter how archaic a concept it sounds. Will you conquer me, love?
I pray that you will love me as I need to be loved, and let me love you with all the love that is brimming in my heart, so ready to overflow onto you. I hope that we can pray together, and talk about God together, and grow in Christ together. And I hope that one day, we can make all the plans that I decline to foresee with my friends; all the wedding plans and baby plans that girls seem driven to make even before they have a partner to make these decisions with. I have always avoided making such statements, because I want those decisions to be made with you and you alone. My life partner. My love.
I just finished watching Dear John. I have to admit, I cannot wait to be able to curl up with you and make you watch chick-flicks, but it’s preferable you didn’t see me during that fiasco. It wasn’t a pretty sight. Not that I expect to always be pretty in front of you – but still. I will tell you that I find the military uniform very, very dashing. As in, are you military? Excuse me while I rip off my clothes. Even though, love, I hope you aren’t military. Because that would be quite the adventure. I have a post that goes more into detail. If you’ve found this letter, then you’ve easy access to that post. Suffice to say, deep emotions and vivid imaginations probably don’t mix too well with a military relationship. I currently have the first two of those elements. I guess we’ll just have to wait and see, and muddle our way through, whatever happens.
My love, after re-reading these thoughts and reflecting on this post by the lovely Preston Yancey, I realized something was missing. I gave you many of my hopes for how you would be, and how you would treat me and love me, but I gave you not nearly enough promises of how I would love you.
Always and ever, my love belongs first to God. But just think of it; you come next. You are second only to God Himself. Remember that.
I may look little and fragile and innocent, my love, but never doubt how strong I am.
Part of me hopes that your pet name for me will be kitten. Rather than sweetheart, or baby, or honey–I’d much prefer something more original, more personal. Everyone calls me Kat. It would be nice if you could call me kitten. But I doubt I would actually suggest it. That might be weird. If you come up with it yourself, I guess I’ll know you’re you.
But that was a tangent (I go off on those a lot, it seems). I’d like you to call me kitten–but I won’t love you like one. I will love you like the lions I cannot resist reblogging on Tumblr. Fiercely, protectively. It won’t matter that you’re bigger than I am. When you’re sad, I will look for someone to rip into. When you’re happy, I will be by your side with pride. When you’re being foolish, I will shake you until you see sense. When you’re sick, I will take care of you. When you do well, I will gladly raise you up on my shoulders.
I will be the one to put my hands on your face, to rub your scruffy cheeks on weekends, to touch my lips to yours in love and friendship and longing. I will be the woman who knows you, inside and out, although I won’t claim to understand every part of you. I will be the one who holds your hand in mine, who rests my knee against yours during Sunday service. I will be the one to straighten your tie and run my hands down your lapels. I will be the one to brush your hair back from your brow gently when you talk to me and to grip it tightly as you kiss me.
I will be the one you turn to when dreams wake you at 3:00AM. I will be the one who bears your children, the one to raise them with you. I will be the one whose shoulder you lean on when you need to, and whose hands hold your heart. I will be the one to whom you confess your mind-thoughts and heart-thoughts and soul-thoughts. I will be the one to whom your hopes and dreams are whispered, and I will be the one to cherish them as I cherish you.
But it won’t all be sunshine and roses, love. I can be quite the bitch, as you probably know. Some days, if you get in my way, I will get the sudden urge to cut out your heart and feed it to you. If you know what I mean. It is something that I do every now and then, and every time, a part of me stands in the corner watching in rapt horror as it happens. Seeing your face fall as my words slash you will undoubtedly bring me to rights – and possibly tears. They will be taken back, and you will be profusely apologized to, but I know such stings sometimes take long to fade. Hopefully you will know to tactfully (tactfully!) avoid me when I’m feeling snappish. Again, tactfully. If you can’t, just run. I’ll understand later when the haze clears from my mind. Maybe.
I also hope that you will understand that I get my humour from my father. In other words, it’s as dry as the Sahara in the summer. So bear with me. Also, use this knowledge on the previous paragraph. But another also: mind the previous paragraph… it’s not lying. Perhaps just exaggerating. Slightly.
I will have my ups and downs, as will you, love. But I’ll stick by your side through it all, if only you’ll return the favour. Even if you fail at doing so, loyalty is one of my strongest traits. But once I’m crossed, once my loyalty is proven misplaced, I can be very loyal to my anger as well. Forgiveness doesn’t usually come easily to me. Temper, on the other hand… Well, it does.
I so want to trust you. But I need to be justified in that trust.