I, being of relatively sound mind, hereby declare this document to be my last Will and Testament.
Not that I plan to go anywhere anytime soon. I think we spend so much time worrying about what we'll leave behind someday that we forget we're already leaving pieces of ourselves behind in each moment.
Pieces of ourselves are left in old bedrooms, text messages, songs, people, and mistakes. They are left in places we swore to never return to, and yet we still think about them.
So, in the event that someone someday has to sort through the wreckage of the life I spent living, losing, loving, and trying to make sense of, I would like to make a few things clear.
I leave my bad decisions to the Smithsonian.
They deserve to be preserved.
I would like them behind glass, with a little gold plaque explaining where I went wrong. I hope that people walk by and whisper, “She knew it was a bad idea. I can’t believe she did it anyway.”
Some deserve their own exhibits. There should be a bronze statue of me getting a cigarette burn after overstaying my welcome at a 3 AM postgame.
I always thought moving forward meant looking back at older versions of myself with remorse. As if growing means hating who you used to be.
I don’t believe that anymore.
Let her make the mistakes. Let her send the text. Let her trust the wrong person.
Hopefully, someone can learn from them. I didn’t always, but I certainly tried.
I leave my friends the version of myself I was with them.
The funniest one.
The loudest one.
The one who calls crying and ends up laughing.
The one who does not have to explain every part of herself to be understood.
I leave them the version of me that exists on long car rides and freely screams “Dancing Queen” into the karaoke mic.
They have seen all of me.
So I leave them that girl.
Keep the pictures, the voice memos, the texts, and the memories.
Keep the pieces of me I may not even realize I gave you.
And if life ever takes us in different directions, I hope that version of me stays with you.
I love you, girls. Thank you for loving me.
Image Courtesy of Isabella Ruiz
I leave my secrets to the walls that heard them.
They were never mine alone to keep anyway.
Some belong to the bathroom floor at two in the morning.
Some belong in car rides where the music was turned down because the conversation got too important to have Charli XCX in the background.
Some belong in bedrooms, cars, and coffee shops.
Some things I said only once because saying them once was enough.
Things that felt lighter the second somebody else knew them.
Keep them safe. Not because I am ashamed, but because something beautiful was being known that well.
I leave my memories to my mother.
But only the ones she wasn’t there for.
I want her to have the nights she never saw.
I want her to see the crowded rooms she never stepped inside of because I was too young and insecure to let her in.
I want her to feel the friendships she only knew through names in stories.
The people who held my hand when she could not.
I want her to know that even when I was not with her, I was still loved.
I was looked after.
I was given a shoulder to cry on.
I was not alone.
I want to give her the laughter she missed.
The long dinners she only heard about over the phone.
I think mothers everywhere deserve to know who loved their children when they were not there to do it themselves.
Thank you for being my mom. If we live an infinite number of lifetimes, I hope you’re my mom in every one.
Image Courtesy of Isabella Ruiz
I leave my regrets to no one.
They have already taken enough out of me.
Regret is a strange thing. It convinces you that somewhere in another universe there is a version of you who did the right thing, took a chance, stayed instead of leaving or left instead of staying.
Maybe there is.
But I do not live in that lifetime. I live in this one.
I am tired of mourning lives I never had.
So the regrets can go.
No beneficiary, just unclaimed property.
I took this photo on Abbey Road. Thank you to John, Paul, George, and Ringo for teaching me to let it be.
Image Courtesy of Isabella Ruiz
I leave the space I learned to take up to those who doubt they belong.
Take it up, too.
This is for anyone who has ever changed how they dressed, spoke, loved, or existed because someone made them feel like who they were was too much or not enough. Take up more.
Use the space to find yourself and try new things.
Wear what makes you feel like you.
You do not need somebody else to tell you who you are before you are even given the chance to find yourself.
Their opinion is not your end-all, be-all.
Let them have it. And then brush it off.
So, to anyone who has ever doubted themselves, I leave you the space I finally learned to take up.
Fill it.
Make it your own. And never, ever apologize.
Finally,
I leave nothing to myself.
I have spent too long trying to hold onto every little thing in my life.
Every memory.
Every person.
Every thought.
I thought that if I could hold it all together, my life would be perfect.
But life isn't supposed to be perfectly intact.
Maybe the point was to leave little pieces of myself everywhere.
In my Paris-themed childhood bedroom covered in pink feathers and Eiffel Towers.
In photos my mom made me pose for, but now I’m so glad I have.
In the people who loved you.
I have decided I do not want to leave this life perfectly intact.
I want to leave scattered.
Proof that I lived.
So, this is my final request:
Take what you want.
Keep what you need.
Laugh and forgive.
And whatever is left over, just leave it exactly where I left it.
Strike Out,
Written by Isabella Ruiz
Edited by Francesca Jaques
Isabella Ruiz is a writer for Strike Magazine GNV. When she is not giving unfiltered advice no one asked for, you can find her listening to true crime, dancing like nobody’s watching, and giggling. Follow and hit her up to get your own unsolicited advice: @_isabellaaruiz.
