Today, my dear friend, fellow dog-lover, and aspiring writer, Gill Kenny joins me in the attic. She’s written a beautiful and moving letter to her 22-year-old self.
Gill left Ireland at the age of 18, to learn French while working as an au-pair in Paris. She believed she would return to her hometown after a year, but that never happened. Instead she worked her way around the world, learning languages and meeting amazing people in awe-inspiring places. With four languages under her belt, she settled in London and worked in publishing where she got to learn from the best. She has had interviews, travel articles and news reports published in various magazines and newspapers, but her dream has always been to publish a novel. A couple of years ago, she came to the conclusion that this dream couldn’t be realised if she hadn’t written a novel, so today she is struggling through a second rewrite but nowhere near ready to show it to anyone.
Gill dedicates herself to caring for her two children, aged ten and eleven, and her dog, Gracie the Groodle, who is one-year-old. She is married to Damien, a tall, dark and very funny Irishman. In her spare time she likes to practice yoga, play Scrabble and read. Her topics of interest include Psychology, Irish history, Nutrition and Natural Therapies. Gill has a diploma in Reflexology and admits to having a penchant for feet. After years of globetrotting, Gill has settled with her family in Perth.
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Dear Jill,
I found your diaries in a dusty box under the stairs and started reading. I’ve just turned fifty and I felt it was time I revisited those difficult times. Now that I’m in a very good place, I have a yearning to reassure you, to comfort you and to tell you that you are courageous and lovely.
I’d forgotten how much you love to write. I have the beautiful little notebooks you wrote in when you first left Ireland in 1984. I’ve kept them in boxes and they’ve accompanied me on journeys that have spanned many countries and many years. I feel a certain apprehension as I open each one—there are at least thirty of them—as I know I’ve forgotten a lot of the detail of how my life unfolded. The musty smell from each page reminds me that I’m getting old and I still have so much to do.
You’ll probably be annoyed to hear that I still haven’t finished writing that first book you said you’d write way back in the 1980s. I have written the first draft, though, and I’m building myself up to tackle the second. At least that’s something. The good news is that I’ve been busy living my life and enjoying the simple things about it.
I can tell from your efforts back then that you loved to escape with a pen. I can also tell from the words you wrote that you were eager to make a point, and many points you did make. The main point seems to be how your inner turmoil impacted on how you saw the world. You want to trust people and you try, but you mostly end up pulling away because deep down you don’t think people could actually like you. Because you, after all, have been brought up to believe that you are essentially bad and nobody’s ever going to love you.
You’re twenty-two-years-old, living in Spain and in a relationship with Rafael. I know that you’re blown away by how handsome he is, and how he reminds you of Eric Estrada. Of course I haven’t forgotten the TV series Chips from when I was fifteen. I loved it and fantasised about being whisked off into the sunset on the back of his motorbike.
My heart goes out to you in your suffering. You are so young and innocent and you have a burning desire to be somebody, to accomplish things in your life. I can still feel the pain of indignity as he strikes you when you’re down. The way he kicks you full force as though you are an animal in his way, all to reinforce your belief that you are worth nothing more. But you are worth so much more. You’re kind, caring, strong, intelligent, interested in life, and you’re also very beautiful.
It breaks my heart to see you so low, to watch you crawl along your destructive path.
If I could walk up to and change one thing, it would be to hug you so strongly that all my belief in you is transmitted through to your heart and you start to walk tall and know that you have every right to be here and be happy.
The fact you still take out your notebook and write most nights is a sign that you’ll pull through because you’re putting into words your innate survival instinct. You know this can’t go on. You’ll eventually find the strength to leave him and in doing so, you’ll develop some much-needed self-esteem.
I’m not going to give away all that lies ahead for you, suffice to say that in taking the first step to change your situation by moving to London, you land on your feet in a job that involves writing which allows you to earn a good living.
I’ve always believed that the Universe conspires to help us when we show a willingness to change, to move away from what we’re used to and step into the unknown. This you’ve done well throughout your life so far, and it will always serve you well.
Let me reassure you: your life ahead is colourful and full of amazing things. It won’t be free of down-days, that’s for sure, but you’ll take them in your stride, with the help of friends and psychologists. You’ll meet the most wonderful people, especially a caring and supportive husband. And best of all you’ll become a mother to two of the most gorgeous children to ever walk the earth. They’ll fill you with the love you have craved and you’ll love them as you have never loved before.
I’m so excited for you.
Lots of love, Gill.
PS. You’ll notice I reverted to the correct spelling of my name xxx
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If you’d like to write something for ‘Writers in the Attic’, let me know via the Contact page. The topic is what writing means to you, but it can be taken as broadly as you like. A length of 600-1000 words seems to suit best, and I offer a small gift as a thank you for your time.
If you’re stuck for ideas on what to write, I have a Q&A I can send with some prompts, so let me know.
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NEWSLETTER
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Your heartrending yet beautiful post left me speechless, Gill. I can’t wait to read your novel, so please tell your fifty year old self to get a shuffle on! 🙂
It’s a beautiful letter, isn’t it? Hear that, Gill—Marlish says to hurry up with your novel! 😉
Thanks Marlish. I feel the time is write 🙂
Such a beautiful and poignant letter to your once young self, Gill. I resonate so much with those youthful decisions that send us into unexpected places. I once wrote myself a letter, as an eighteen year old to my twenty one year old self. The thing that stays with me include the demands my young self made of me then. No such demands as you get older and look back on that young self as you do here. There’s so much compassion for that young woman in her struggle and such a joy to read it all worked out and hopefully continues to work out for you so well. Get onto that next draft now. It’s so good to read about your journey.
Thanks for your wonderful comment, Elisabeth. It’s nice that we feel only compassion for our younger selves, not the blame and shame of the past.
And hear that, too, Gill—another reader wanting your novel already!
Thanks for the encouragement Elisabeth. I’m in Freefall this week which will hopefully catapult me into a good writing routine next week. Best wishes, Gill
Hi Gill, your writing and your letter are beautiful. Keep going please x
Thanks, Rae. Hope you’re reading, Gill—looks like you have readers ready and waiting! 🙂
Wow Rae I am flattered. Thank you. Best wishes, Gill
I’m really glad you have so much compassion for your younger self, Gill. Although it sounds like you’ve had some rough times, it seems like if anything that’s only made you treasure your present life more fully.
All the very best with your novel – if this letter is anything to go by, it’s going to be a beauty!
Thanks for dropping by again, Fi, and for your lovely comment. Compassion for our younger, less wise, less experienced selves is essential, isn’t it? Everything we’ve experienced has made us who we are, and really, would we want to be anyone different?
PS. I’ll add you to the list of readers awaiting Gill’s first novel! 🙂
I think everybody has rough times- if only they all knew the amazing help writing about it can be. It’s certainly been a real life-line for me for as along as I can remember. You’ve made me want to write my novel even more now, thank you! Best wishes, Gill
That was a beautiful and touching letter. It made me think I should write myself one soon – the thoughts have certainly been whirling around in my head for a little while.
A lovely message of hope shone through your letter. Thank you for sharing it.
You’re right—this letter is uplifting!
Please write your own letter, Marie! If you wanted to share, it could be a part of this series. (Hint, hint 😉 )
Nice hint & duly taken. I should pluck up some courage in the new year!
I’ll look forward to reading it! 🙂
Despite some crushing sadness and despair at various times, you’re as tough as old boots, Gill. I’m sure this, and your capacity for turning over new leafs with joy, are now part of your children’s DNA. And your book 😉 Michele
Incredible strength, I agree. Thanks for reading. 🙂
Thanks Louise and Gill. I love this Attic series.
I’m glad you’re enjoying it, Lily! Feel free to write a piece for it whenever you want—I’d be honoured to post it! 🙂
I want to!
I’d love you to! ❤️❤️❤️ When you get a chance!
Ah, that’s a beautiful letter – full of love and hope and the idea that persevering will get us through. I’m so pleased Gill got to a place where she was able to write it 🙂
Persevering, not giving up, having hope—it’s the answer to everything, isn’t it? (I’ll have to remind myself of this over the next four years!)
Yes, I really do think it is. I will also be reminding myself of this over the next four years…
We can remind each other. And think of koalas. 🙂
Absolutely! When in doubt, think koala 😀
We’ll call it the ‘koala cure’! x
PS. I’ve settled down a bit since yesterday’s dramatic happenings—not only did the sun still rise, but I also realised I can still live by my values—I don’t have to adopt his. None of us have to. 🙂
The koala cure – perfect! I like it a lot 🙂 Glad to hear you’re feeling better – I’ve settled down a bit more too. I keep laughing about it, occasionally, because it seems like such a joke. Then I remember it’s serious. But, as you say, we don’t have to adopt his values – we can just hold the line, be strong, and move forward, remembering who we are. 🙂
I can’t laugh about it—not yet. But I have accepted it. And my anger at the American people is settling.
I have two touchstones: (1) the knowledge that at least half of Americans *didn’t* vote for him, and (2) that just because he stands for values I don’t hold, *I* don’t have to change mine. xx
Two pretty solid touchstones to hang on to. The world has continued to turn and, even though my mind is shying away from it at the moment, he will be president. And then we shall see… xx