Dear Me from 4 years ago,

I know you weren’t thinking about winning the election. You weren’t a good enough candidate, and you had no experience. At least that’s how you saw the race. And your political party had not held a seat on the township board for years; correction, make that decades. In fact, they normally did not even run candidates for those township positions. Yes, I can see why you didn’t think enough of yourself to unseat an incumbent from the board.

Getting on the ballot was easier than you thought. You had the support from members of a local women’s group who helped get the 250 signatures you needed. But you knew getting your name on a ballot and winning a race against incumbents are two very different things. In your mind, you cast yourself as the underdog, and perhaps you were.

You ordered campaign literature and yard signs. Facebook posts and ads explained your views and positions. That was the simple part of the campaign. You wondered if you were good enough to hold your own at the candidate’s public forum. It was a good sign when opponents started agreeing with some of your talking points by the end of the forum.

Your confidence was growing until you tried to get an endorsement from a US House member. She told you in no uncertain terms that you were not running a serious enough campaign. Sorry, but she wouldn’t endorse you. I know that hurt, but it also steeled your resolve. You were no longer just running against some incumbent township board candidates, but you were running against the opinion of a sitting US Congresswoman who didn’t think your campaign effort was enough. You responded by working harder and smarter.

Sadly, it turned out that your campaign actually wasn’t good enough to get the most votes. You were not even close. You didn’t finish in second either. So close to third, but you fell short. Fortunately, four members serve on the board, and you finished comfortably fourth in the voting. Welcome to an elected office.

Here we are four years later, and you are now me, starting my second term in office on the township board after receiving the most votes of all candidates in the election two months ago. Discussions have begun about running for a county board position in 2028. Do I have enough in me to win? I think I just might this time.

Regards,
Me from today

Dear Unsealed,
Dear Vicki.
My version of myself was always to strive for the best.
As I used to feel I was left behind by the rest
So, I would strive to write and be good
Just like I thought I should
My younger brother was always trying to be the king
As I walk around the house singing
I attended nursing school
And I found out that it was cool
Learning about medicine and our bodies
I still felt like nobody
I then attended business school
To not be a fool
Flunked marketing class
Writing a thesis on shopping at thrift stores
For name brand clothes for less
My thesis was 10 pages long
My heart and soul bore
The truth
But my marketing professor said I was uncouth
And the thesis was supposed to be about expensive stores
And the better clothes to be found at a higher price
Of indulging into capitalism of the rich
A stitch
In time
I switched
To journalism
As an ism
Of fun
In the sun
Then I still wanted to study more
So not to be a bore
I learned makeup artistry
To work in the film industry
Then I studied graphic design
On the first MAC in its time
Then I was not satisfied with just that
So, I sat
In computer classes for years
With blood, sweat, and tears
Working in all my fields at once
Multi-tasking a bunch
I still felt like I wanted more
To not be bored
I now write
I now create art
I now try to bite the bullet
At 75
Of peace, truth, love, and understanding of life.
Still fighting with my younger brother
In love with the Heritage Foundation and all those fools
And their short male tools
Of huge egos and lies
Not enough was my attempt to fulfill my dreams in Hollywood
I have done so much 24/7
Now I’m tired of all that arguing with my brother
We took different paths in life
At 75 I still write about life and strife
Honesty and equality for all
So, the decision is made in the shade
Of my golden years
Of laughter and tears
Art is life
Life is art
My brother with all his religious degrees
Finally admitted he knew about religion
But not medicine
As all the laws from his precious heritage foundation
Are passed to kill healthcare and all that medicine holds true
I love my brother as a human being in his own light
Not to create a negative light
Upon this prose of sheer delight
As play with my toys and live in lollipop land
Of cookies and creams in those land
Of dreams that never stop
My dreams spit them out
As I sleep at night
Despite fighting or flight
My fight for justice
Is still in flight to fight again
Never enough!
Or is it?
It is enough to continue my fight for justice, equality, understanding, and love as a humanitarian.
I asked Microsoft Copilot about this letter.
“This document is a heartfelt letter addressed to a past version of oneself, expressing feelings of inadequacy and the journey of personal growth over time.
• Struggles with Self-Worth: The author reflects on their feelings of not being enough despite pursuing various educational paths and careers, including nursing, business, and journalism. They recount experiences that contributed to their sense of inadequacy, such as failing a marketing class and feeling overlooked in their pursuits. 1 2
• Embracing Art and Activism: As the author aged, they found solace in writing, creating art, and advocating for justice and equality. They acknowledge their ongoing struggles, particularly with family dynamics, but ultimately declare their commitment to fighting for humanitarian causes.”
Style guidance compliance is 100 percent by the Prowriting aid app.

allow me to wrap you in tailored wool,
sympathy soft against your tiny neck,
buttons gleaming with the understanding
of time and distance, and seams reinforced
by threads spun in defiance to self-pity.

Wear your resilience proudly, its woad-dyed blue
a calm stretch of sea amid the turbulence
of childhood when icy raindrops snaked
along your skin, under your clothes,
cryobranding your tenderness with filth.

Slide your hands deep into the open slant
of pockets lined with food coupons—
brown, purple, and green printed paper
staining fingers the rainbow of poverty—
and revel in the warmth this temporary tattoo brings

feel the cuffs migrate slowly up your forearm,
exposing secondhand-stained wrists to nature,
sun, wind, and rain neutralizing the eau de ashtray film
that’s suffocated every ivory pore since birth—
inhale the quintessential scent of bare self

as buttons strain against velvet butterfly wings
emerging from an amoxicillin-induced cocoon,
their flutter a rush of purpose and determination—
heat that radiates from navel to heart to mind,
incinerating any further need for outerwear

and when your molten eruptions kiss the froth,
igneous islands take shape, grow, flourish—
a spectacular view mirrored in tranquil seas
that flash with supersaturated horizon messages
letting you know, future to past, you’ve always been enough.

Style Score 100%

Bobbing pigtails cocoon,
shrink-wrap the toddler
kneeling on a cold basement floor,
constrict, smaller and smaller
until she segments, earthworm thin,
wriggles between his bare knees,
escapes into the plush lawn
to burrow between their houses—free.

The crack of leather against soft flesh
weaves a raised scarlet gambeson,
cushion for the next whisper
of his belt’s unsheathing—
a base layer of resilience,
its thick, coarse wool
numbing the jounce as life’s stiff saddle
gallops through the castle gate.

Rows of granite molars
glisten, crowd the mouth of Hope
and behind lips of autumn grass,
a dark earthen tongue craves
satin-lined black enamel rest;
snap! the flounce of a daughter’s skirt,
caught, wears against stone teeth,
frays to nothing over time.

Dark feathers flash-dive, screeching,
talons poised to shred,
claim the exposed flesh of a mother’s heart—
fragile, beat depolarized—
sink instead into a bedside prayer,
flex against antiseptic days, wings frantic,
until, drained, worn thin by hunger,
they ascend to hunt another soul.

These places lie in the shadows now—
petals pressed to dirt, scars incorporated
into the bark of becoming,
an unseen root anchoring past to present
among the long-buried bones of soul raptors—
and a weighty trunk branches,
thins into breath on the wind—
filter for the breaking dawn.

Style Score: 75

It was like a pit and a pendulum,
or an empty “whole” where I had to grow.
If I chose to take this path again,
I surely wouldn’t bend—
but you set the soil for my blossoming.

Every day I tried to leave, to run, to be free,
but it was me who trapped me.
A mental slavery—until I chose to be me, unapologetically.
To choose myself among the rest.
35 years I thought I was doing my best,
but the bar was low. I see that now.

Joseph’s pit with a Pita Pit, broken hearts, poverty, and strife—
Could I really be another wife?
This “Whole” I dug beneath the rug
turned out to be a home, a haven.
I laughed, I cried, I sang to ravens.

A final goodbye at this final pit stop.
Here today and gone tomorrow,
I now leave behind all my sorrows.

Welcoming the new, not the blues.
Free at last, free from the past,
free to pack and never look back.
“What pit?” I’ll say—
Today is a brand new day.

If I was the five-year-old version of myself,
I would be ecstatic to have someone like you on my shelf.
I would gaze up at you and see a force,
And automatically know that your strength is my source.
If I was the ten-year-old version of myself,
I could have nothing and know that I have endless wealth.
I would look to you and say ‘I wish I could be just like you one day’.
If I was the fifteen-year-old version of myself,
I would boast about your progress and how far you have come with no help.
You navigate this world with a heavy weight on your shoulders,
But still remain strong as if your purse are boulders.
However, if the twenty-year-old version of myself could talk to me today,
Her words would remain in her throat because she knows there is no right thing to say.
She would hold out her arms and pull me into her embrace,
And she would rock me side to side as she strokes my face.
She knows words would not suffice because my spirit has been broken.
So, the vibrato from her hums soothe my soul as unnecessary words are left unspoken.
The twenty-five-year-old version of myself would have so much to say,
Because even though yesterday you couldn’t, today we have to pray.
No person should carry the weight of the world on their shoulders,
And no person should have to endure an endless fight like war soldiers.
Because that fight has already been won,
So, the only thing left to do is to give myself over to the Son.

Style Score: 78%

Dear Old Self,

Listen up and listen good. I understand that life is a lesson you must experience on your terms, but here are a few words of wisdom that would have made your life’s journey a little easier. I have a long list of things I could say, but knowing you, I need to keep it short and sweet. So here goes my top six.

Accept people for who they are. Never expect them to live up to the expectations you set for yourself. Their journey in life differs significantly from yours, I promise. If requiring others to live up to your expectations is a prerequisite for a relationship, you are setting them up for failure, and disappointment will be yours alone. That’s another promise I make to you. Differences make people unique individuals. Learn to find the value of your differences and see the beauty in others.

Relax. Don’t take things so seriously. It’s ok to be passionate without perfection. Remember, flexibility over rigidity. Life will throw you a curveball at any moment. Many of them, as a matter of fact. Relax and enjoy the pleasant moments. You’ll thank me later.

Make every moment memorable. Rather, with a stranger or a loved one, memories are to be cherished forever. Unfortunately, time will erase a few. It’s just a part of growing older. I always say growing older is better than the alternative, so make the best of every moment and hold on tight to those memories.

Don’t be afraid to make mistakes. How else will you learn? Everyone makes mistakes, and no one person on this earth is exempt, no matter what they tell you. The key is to learn from your mistakes by acknowledging them, figuring out how not to keep making the same mistakes, and moving on. This would have helped you grow into the phenomenal woman you were meant to be much sooner.

Extend grace to yourself and others. Life is hard enough. Choose acceptance over judgment. Show compassion and understanding even when under challenging circumstances. Give unconditionally and not with intentions. The power of patience and prayer for yourself and others will become your superpower. Everyone needs these things to make it through life, and you are not exempt my dear.

Finally, understand that it is okay not to be okay. This road has seen many travelers. Invest in your mental health, seek help when needed, and do the work. At the end of the day, you are your most prized possession. Throughout life, you’ve prioritized others and put yourself last. I’m telling you now, you can’t truly take care of others if you’re not taking care of yourself.

I wish I could have shared these words earlier to ease your life a bit and lighten your struggles. But just in case you were wondering, despite any bumps in your road, you turned out to be one amazing lady.

Sincerely Yours

Style Score 76%

Dear Unsealed,
Breathe in, breathe out. Life is a rose. Sometimes one gets pricked on the finger by the thorns as you pick up the rose to smell the scent. You learned to put a band-aid on your cut and learned to take the band aid off and laugh.
This is beginning of what I would tell my younger self.
I see you, Vicki.
You were shy at a young age, yet bold enough to run out in the front yard shirtless at three years old. Your mom was incredibly angry. You told her you didn’t have any titties yet. This seems that my personality carried me through life. At one moment, I am an empath introvert. Then the next moment you are writing protest songs and standing up for humanity with a pen and computer.
I see you, Vicki.
You were always drawing, writing, and playing music from a very immature age. You are still an empath. How has that worked out? You attracted narcissistic little boys. You went to college beginning in the 70s. You studied everything I could study. You began writing professionally again in 2023. I now see red flags in relationships. I have learned to love myself. You learned to set boundaries.
I see you, Vicki.
You were always a dreamer, hanging out with your imaginary friend, Teddy Bear, singing, and at times, you very depressed. Now, you know how to deal with your feelings by using critical thinking skills and the core values therapy your therapist sent you. I will tell my younger self, “Don’t be so boy crazy! Think expansively, go for the gusto in journalism and education, don’t let the narcissistic nuts get you down, and stay creative.”
Breathe in, breathe out. Life is a rose. Sometimes one gets pricked on the finger by the thorns as you pick up the rose to smell the scent. You learned to put a band-aid on your cut and learned to take the band aid off and laugh.
I say to my younger self those core values my grandma taught me were my guide throughout my life. However, I didn’t always follow the advice given to me by my grandma Carrie Soleta.
I see you, Vicki.
You had so much faith as in the story about the grain of a mustard seed and that phrase your grandma taught you held you together throughout your life. The story about the “faith of a mustard seed” is found in the Bible, in Matthew 17:20. In this verse, Jesus tells His disciples that even faith as small as a mustard seed can move mountains, emphasizing the incredible potential of even the tiniest amount of genuine faith. The mustard seed, known for being one of the smallest seeds, symbolizes how something so insignificant can grow into something powerful and transformative.
You were naïve, funny, and bold. You loved writing, art, music, and reading at an incredibly youthful age. You would sit for hours playing your piano and singing those blues from long ago. Leadbelly and Bessie smith were among your favorites. You grew up in a home full of music. You were taught to like all forms of music at a different age.
I see you, Vicki, in your music class in middle school at 14 years old. President John F. Kennedy was assassinated on November 22, 1963, while riding in a motorcade in Dallas, Texas. It was a pivotal moment in U.S. history, leaving a lasting impact on the nation. That must have been such an emotional and unforgettable moment, Vicki. To go from the joy and rhythm of singing to the gravity of that announcement was a stark contrast that deepened the impact. Your immediate reaction was to burst out in tears spoke volumes about how much JFK meant to you and your family. His charisma and vision touched many, and it sounds like his loss felt deeply personal to you.
It’s extraordinary how those memories stay with you, etched in time. Vicki, I see you!
Another pivotal moment was your broken right ring finger. Your mom dropped you off at middle school one morning. She warned you not to go visit your boyfriend because if you did, she would find out. You stepped out of the car. As your mom drove off you waved, pretending to walk into the school. When she had turned the corner and was out of sight you turned around, walked down the steps of the school and hurried over to your boyfriend’s house. You hugged him and you guys laughed so hard about you sneaking off to his house. You looked at your watch. Oh no, you will be late for class. So, you ran to school, not aware of your surroundings, causing you to run into an open pickup door. You caught yourself with your right hand, only to discover you broke your right ring finger when you crashed into the door. You walked the half block to school crying your eyes out. When you got to the school to see the school nurse she called your mom. Your mom picked you up shortly after the call. You stepped into her car, “Mom, so sorry. Please don’t be mad. I hurt so much.” She replied, “I told you I would find out if you went to your boyfriends house.” You replied, “Mom, you didn’t have to wish it to hurt so much!”
You broke the same right ring finger at least four more times. You were 14 and clumsy.
I see you, Vicki.
That one day you disobeyed your mom was a year of one broken finger. You had major surgery on your squashed and very broken finger. The surgeons told you they wanted to use you as a guinea pig for a new operation. You had almost completely repaired your finger. They told you they had to cut a nerve to your brain from your right ring finger. They had no idea about the end results. So, for one year I learned to write with my left hand as my right ring finger was repaired and a cast applied so I wouldn’t break it again and protect it while it healed. You called it your right-hand boot.
You now know the result of your nerve severance of your right ring finger is more than likely the reason you hold your computer mouse upside down. There were no computers in 1964.
You drove your teachers nuts in graphic arts classes, but you managed to get them off your back by telling them to back off. You asked them if they had an issue with your work, so, they let you be.
You were way too boy crazy. You hired your neighbor to iron clothes on the day it was your turn to do your chores. Sue, your neighbor loved to iron and told you she needed money to buy a toy, you hired her for the next week. You got away with that for two months. I would sit on your parents’ bed reading musician magazines and playing music. I was supervising Sue. I shared my stipend with her. We were caught. I was grounded.
I tell you that it was very entrepreneurial. Of course, women were not considered in those terms in 1964. Women were 2nd class citizens in 1964.
One incredibly sad moment was in 1966. You were in high school. You dressed in bell bottoms and crop tops. You straightened your curly hair to look like Cher. You wore Indian moccasins to a party one night. Everyone welcomed you. You were given a beer, but you didn’t drink but you sipped it. The three football boys sitting on the sofa looked at the other two football boys in the room, and then they grabbed you yelling at you calling you an Indian squaw whore. They grabbed you, dragging you into the bedroom. They raped you one by one as they forced you to not move holding you down. You weighed 100 pounds at 16. The following Monday, you were stared at, called names. You were bullied throughout high school with Indian squaw whore. In the late 1960s women were 2nd class citizens. It was always the girl’s fault if they were raped. Men were told it was okay. That followed you throughout your life. You could not tell anyone. Now, I tell you at 16, men can be useless and mean, and their tools are nothing but their pee tools.
Your dad sent you to study nursing school in 1968. You graduated from an LVN program in 1969.
Another pivotal moment was beginning college in the 1970s. You could not wait to study everything. Pandoras box was opened, and you were Tinkerbell exploring all the merchandise. You studied Business and union management. Then you studied Journalism.
You flunked marketing because your thesis in business was about name brand clothing labels and how they were the best to buy. Your thesis was about shopping at thrift stores and buying name brand clothes that were name brand clothes but were half the price of Neiman Marcus. It was an exceedingly long thesis with descriptive adjectives, verbs, and nouns that sent your marketing professor into a rage. He gave me a grade of F minus. You switched to a journalism major. There was no Fox faux news back then.
You studied computers and makeup artistry in the 1980s. the 1980s were a trying time for you, you worked at the LA Times and for some reason you turned down the date with the rich guy and went on a date with a guy you had nothing in common with except sex. You were gullible and had way too many hormones. One night at the beach in the dude’s van and you thought you were in love. Despite the differences of cultures as you were from North Hollywood, and he was from South Central Los Angeles. You had two gorgeous babies that weighed ten pounds each. One was born in 1983. The other was born in 1987. You divorced the narcissistic South Central LA dude in 1989. It was a horrible divorce. He never forgave you and still holds grudges against you as he is a narcissist, liar, cheat, and now MAGA. So, how did we get together? He was a gun-loving fool, you were a flower child and political activist, and humanitarian. This has affected you even in old age, as he has tried to turn your grandchildren and sons against you as you stand today. The main lesson you learned from this unique relationship was that you did not go to work at the LA Times to get married or have babies. You love your two now grown men very much, but unfortunately the gun loving MAGA dad has more influence than your empath, creative personality. As he called you, weak and too caring. My oldest son told me I never did anything in my life because I don’t have money. He will ignore me until I make money with my art, writing, and music. His dad and his brother will find something else wrong with me when I make more money. So, you turned it over to God, because it’s too painful to execute your crying all day every day. Breath in, breathe out as the thorns on the stem of the rose hurt and bleed to the point, I had to search for the band aid to patch it up.
You married again, but this time a Yaqui and Chumash Native American dude. You divorced him because of domestic violence in April 2000. You now remember he went off his rocker and became extremely mentally ill as it was hereditary in his family.
You then became involved with an Italian dude named Barberini. He was much older than you. You followed him to Texas leaving your computer job which you would have retired with a good salary and benefits. You guys broke up. Then the Texas cowboy, a University of Texas political degreed narcissist whose boots were even orange. Then you guys broke up in 2016. The morning, he told you he saw demons upon waking up, and you saw angels, was the final day you ever saw him. Your friend picked you up and you spent the week with her before you left to go back to California.
You moved back to LA and kissed the ground when you stepped off Amtrak at Union Station.
Flying monkeys were everywhere as your ex-orange boots nutty mentally ill dude called all your friends.
You shed oceans of tears.
“The term “flying monkeys” in the context of a narcissistic breakup refers to individuals who, knowingly or unknowingly, aid the narcissist in their manipulative tactics. The phrase originates from The Wizard of Oz, where the Wicked Witch’s flying monkeys conducted her bidding. Similarly, in relationships, these “flying monkeys” might spread rumors, gaslight, or otherwise support the narcissist’s narrative.
Narcissists often recruit flying monkeys by playing the victim, using charm, or exploiting relationships. These individuals may genuinely believe they are helping or may be manipulated into taking the narcissist’s side. Their actions can amplify the emotional distress of the person targeted by the narcissist.
Understanding this dynamic can be crucial for healing and setting boundaries after a breakup.” ‘As per http://www.veywellmind.com’
This has happened to you with your family, your lovers, your marriages, and some of your fake friends.
You now have had a therapist since 2019.
I am now at 75, creating art, music, and writing again.
I will tell you about my younger self who did not know who you were as a human being for almost your whole life. You loved your teddy bear as your imaginary friend as a child. You have had dreams since birth that have come true. Your grandma Carrie visited you for ten years after she died. You covered up your feelings and scars by dancing on tables and sometimes drinking too much. You no longer drink nor dance on tables. You are learning you are a creative introvert with spurts of extrovert activities and then being a recluse as you are now okay with who you are. You are learning your boy craziness was absurd. Boys are just human beings and have severely damaged egos about whose tool is bigger than the next guy, it’s almost a comedy of errors except now our president is a narcissistic fool and the short tooled damaged ego dudes oversee America.
I have complex PTSD from too many narcissistic relationships and had a meltdown after the election. I spoke with the therapist two times a week for three weeks.
Women are 2nd class citizens again. Bigotry is rampant. My DNA is mixed with three African tribes, Irish, Kerry County, Ireland, London, Indios Mexico, Native American Choctaw, Mediterranean Italian and Spanish, Coptic Egyptian, Red Sea, Asian, and last, but not least, a human being.
You have learned you are a humanitarian, dreamer psychic, empath creative introvert, and to love yourself despite ugly men that have tried to make you into another person by belittling you and sending flying monkeys to your friends.
The final pivot in your life was getting old, excepting your white hair, and not chasing after men. Keep creating with all your music, writing, and art. You have health issues that include kidney disease, parathyroid disease, diverticulitis, and three old spinal fractures. Your diet is lactose free and gluten free except you can eat pan dulce and mozzarella cheese. Mozzarella cheese is from Italy and pan dulce from Spain/Mexico.
I would like to tell you other stories, but you have lived a long time. That’s for a future story.
Breathe in, breathe out. Life is a rose. Sometimes one gets pricked on the finger by the thorns as you pick up the rose to smell the scent. You learned to put a band-aid on your cut and learned to take the band aid off and laugh.
Style Score85%
Style Guide Compliance92%
I EDITED THIS FOUR TIMES. I EDITED IT TWICE IN MICROSOFT WORD AND TWICE IN PRO WRITING AID. WHY DID I DO THIS BECAUSE THIS IS WHAT I DO. I THEN HAVE TO SAY TO MYSELF, “WHOA, VICKI, YOU GOT IT, CHILL!”