Letter #8: Flowers in Your Hair

Dear you,

"There will come a time you’ll see with no more tears, and love will not break your heart, but dismiss your fears. Get over your hill and see what you find there, with grace in your heart and flowers in your hair.”

            -Mumf. & Sons lyrics

I'm done with my exam now, so before I head to bed, I'm going to write you something. Because I feel like you need it today. And I want you to have it everyday.

I swore I wouldn’t reveal anybody’s identity in these letters. But gosh, do you deserve it. I wish I could wear a badge that tells your story and tells of your strength and tells of your beauty.

You are beautiful.

When I was 14, I realized how incredible you were. I watched you go through hell. I went through a lot of it with you. I watched you sob. And I watched you carry the weight of the world on your shoulders with the grace of heaven in your heart. I can’t do that. But you do that, every single day.

I don’t know all the stress you face each day. You wake up each morning with a list of concerns a mile long. You know pain a mile deep. You love me a mile wide. It’s really beautiful, who you’ve become. And some days, I see this pungent fear in your eyes. I see this wearying pain on your face. I see anger and a righteous fury flash across your face, and I see worry.

But I’ve never seen the hope ripped out of your heart.

Yes, Mom, there will come a time where you’ll see, with no more tears. And love won’t break our hearts anymore. Love will be our saving grace. And in a way, it already has been. In the midst of so much hell, you have been love to me. I hope one day you get over this hill and see what you find, with grace in your heart, and flowers in your hair.

No one deserves it more.

And I love you.

-

Letter #7: Veins

“The night was all you had, but you run into the night from all you had. Found yourself a path upon the ground; ran into the night; you can’t be found.”

-Bastille lyrics

You.

I'm always so scared I'm going to lose you. I’ve only met you once. And yet I'm so scared. That night where you need to hear somebody’s voice, and so I Skyped you? I was so scared. I prayed so hard that night that you would be okay. Because I know what it feels like to not be okay.

I prayed that you would feel something. I prayed that you would feel the blood pumping through your veins. I prayed that would remind you that you’re alive. I prayed that this realization would remind you of people in your life. I prayed that you would remember the ones who love you. I prayed that you knew those same people would die for you, so you wouldn’t have to.

Last summer, I was so sick. A raging kidney infection had gotten into my blood stream. I spent a week in the hospital, hooked up to every IV they could find. I remember feeling those IVs. At four in the morning, when my nurse switched out my IV, I remember waking up to the feeling of a cold new antibiotic race through my veins. I felt it everywhere. I felt all my veins. Sometimes, they would pump Potassium through my veins, and it would burn. I would sit there and hold my mom’s hand and cry.

I prayed that you would feel your veins like that. That you would taste, very vividly, just how alive you are.

And then, you were momentarily okay. That makes me smile. Every now and then you would send me a message about how happy you are. About how you know God is in control. About how you miss me. Those things make me smile, because I see the hope rise up in you like a long-awaited springtime.

I wanted that to last in you.

And I hope you know that you can stop running now. I’m here. It’s me. I’m safe. And I am so, so glad that you’re still here with me. You’ve known the night and it’s been all you had. But please stop running into it. Never again. Stay here with me, because you’re safe here, in the quiet. It’s going to be alright. Shhh. Stay.

Maybe I can see you again someday. And we could go for coffee and be like two sisters who have a lovely bond. And if feeling your veins hurts, I will hold your hand through the pain; and I will understand – anything – everything.

-

Letter #6: You Love, Love, Love

Dear you,

“These fingertips will never run through your skin, and those bright-blue-eyes can only meet mine, across a room, filled with people that are less important than you.”

-Of Monsters and Men lyrics

It’s been a little over a year. Funny how people can come to mean so much to us in such a tiny bit of time. I still remember that first time we talked (not counting the time I ignored you). Did anybody think God would work miracles because of that friendship? Probably not. In fact, absolutely not.

People were more concerned with me beating you with a frying pan, cakes that were a lie, the cow, and getting engaged. And granted, those are legitimate concerns. Even you and I were caught up in those concerns, because they are rather…occupying. But even still, who could’ve guessed how we’d turn out.

We’ve had our conflicts. I still remember the time that I told you a secret about me, not knowing it would hurt you, and you cried. I remember the desperate helplessness that I felt, because I couldn’t be there. I sat and stared at my screen, reading that you were crying; and you sat and stared at your screen, telling me you were crying.

Dang this distance.

I feel really helpless. You struggle. I know you do. I read it on your face; I hear it in your voice; I feel it in every “I’m fine” that you give me. But you try to cover it up for me. You try to look strong for me. You try to be something unwavering – constant – for me. It’s precious. But you don’t have to do this. You can open up your scars for me. You can tell me what hurts. It’s okay.

I want to help.

But honestly, you break my heart. You’ve been there this whole time. And most of the time, I let you be there. But other times, I pulled away. It was always because I wanted to protect you. It was always because I love you. You are my kid brother; it’s my job to love you, protect you – help you out in this wild wide world. And yet, I haven’t always been there. It breaks my heart.

I’ve made you cry, at least once that I know of. I’ve worried you a hundred times. It’s not been right. I am so sorry. When I “adopted” you, I was supposed to love you, be there for you, be your big sister. Nothing more, nothing less. So many times, I’ve been less.

But you. You’ve always been there. You’ve always loved. You’ve always prayed, always hoped, always cared. Even when I didn’t. Even when I couldn’t. When my world was falling apart and I shut you out, you stood there – painfully, awkwardly, worriedly – outside my walls. You waited until I could let you back in. And dear child, it is a process. It takes a while. But you’ve always waited. It’s beautiful. I don’t deserve this. You’ve modeled Christ to me.

Who would’ve thought that’s where our friendship would end up.

-

Letter #5: Complete Unknown

Dear you,

“Don’t wanna think about it; I’m frickin tired of getting sick about it. Now stand back up and be a man about it, and fight for something, fight for something.”

-Mariana’s Trench lyrics

It’s been a long time, and that doesn’t sadden me.

People have asked me if I miss you, and the answer is, frankly, no. I’ve told you that. Part of me hates to admit it, but I don’t, really. I’m sorry to be so mean. I’m so sorry to be so frank. I’m sorry to be so harsh. I’m sorry to be so rude.

Maybe you’ve rubbed off on me.

I don’t know. I’m hurt. Really hurt, actually. And I’ve told you that, too. I’ve told you that a lot. But you never cared. You haven’t ever cared. And you still don’t.

What happened to you? Why don’t you care? Did you ever care? I’m sick of this, but my heart is really just broken. In a million pieces; broken. A lot of people have hurt me; a lot of people have sickened me; a lot of people have chipped at my heart; a lot of people have even wrung my heart. But you’re the only one who has broken it. I’ve never been angry at another person, truly, except for you. I get ticked off at other people, and I might cuss them out. I might rant about them to Mom. I might stop talking to them. But no one has ever broken my heart so badly that I am angry.

I don’t get angry like you get angry. I don’t throw things. I don’t hurt people. I don’t scream and yell. I don’t take revenge. I hold it inside, and let it beat me, over and over. I taste it again and again. I cry about it at 3 AM. And if I’m feeling brave, I might sling some bitter sarcasm at you. I just might.

That’s what all those texts were about last week.

My anger towards you is bitter. It hurts me to be this angry. But I’m not angry for myself. Sure, I’m angry for all the ways you hurt me. I’m angry about all the things you said. I’m angry that I was hurting so badly and you never helped me. I’m angry that you were supposed to be the person to hold my hand, and you never did. I’m angry that I tried to scream for you to help me, and you didn’t. I’m angry that I begged you to change, and you told me you were already good enough. I’m angry that you’ve eliminated so much of the beauty in me. I’m angry that you’ve woven your poison into even the smallest elements of my life.

But that’s not the deep bitterness I feel towards you. The deep bitterness isn’t rooted in my personal pain. It’s rooted in my empathy. I hurt for the people you’ve ruined. I hurt for the helpless people you’ve sabotaged. I ache and burn for them. I’ve watched people sob because of you. I’ve watched people stare blankly into space, feeling the anguish of the pain you’ve caused. And I’ve watched you drive that knife into the wound, further and further, as if you don’t realize how much it hurts.

Some days I think you know exactly how much it hurts, but you don’t care.

I don’t knowww. I don’t understand your head. Some days you act like you might possibly care, and then you rip open the wounds again with your actions. Ugh. I want to believe you care. I want to believe that you’re going to make it all better, like you say. I want to believe you aren’t a complete butthole.

But I just can’t. And that hurts so badly. I hate the truth; I hate what you’ve done; I hate what you’re doing. And I hate that I cannot do anything about it.

My anger is a deep sadness. It’s pain. Does it make you happy that you make other people feel like this? Do you think it’s an unfortunate but unavoidable side-effect? What do you think? Why are you like this? Please tell me. Please tell us. Please help us understand. I can’t trust you anymore, because trusting you always ends up breaking my heart. But I want to understand why. And I don’t want you to give me the BS you’ve been giving everybody. I want to know the truth. Why are you who you are? Why are you like this? Your answers to those questions are lies. And I want to know the truth.

I wish I could see you like God sees you; in all honesty, truth; naked. I wish I could see your soul laid bare. I wish I could see all the scars and lies and ugly weeds, exposed. I wish I could see the naked truth, because then I would understand. I need to see your naked soul. I don’t think you even know the naked truth anymore. You only know your fabrications and quixotic hopes and fake promises. That’s all I’ve known, too. But if we could all see, then maybe we could all figure this out.

A lot of girls sit around and cry because some boy has broken their heart. They call him a butthole because maybe he cheated on them. Maybe they hate that boy because he likes someone else; maybe they hate him because he won’t talk to them; maybe they hate him because he plays hard to get. That’s what all my friends are dealing with. And then there’s me, and I’m dealing with not some boy, but you; and it feels so awkward. Because no one understands. No one has the capability to understand, because they aren’t facing the same issue. Or maybe they think they understand, but they see this kind of thing all the time. They don’t care. Maybe….this kind of pain is so rampant in our society that people cheapen it. It’s so common that no one cares anymore. But that’s the most dangerous part. Because it’s so common, people think it isn’t a big deal. And because they thing it isn’t a big deal, they repeat it. And they don’t care about the people they break in the process.

Is that what happened to you? Did this same pain break you so badly that you stopped caring about other people’s pain?

You know exactly how I feel. Abandoned. Hated. Lost. Broken. Angry. Bitter. Lonely. You know how I feel, because you went through it. And now you’re doing it to me.

Please stop.

-

Letter #4: Brave

Dear you,

“All my life, I wish I broke mirrors, instead of promises. ‘Cause all I see is a shattered conscience staring right back at me.”

-Owl City lyrics

If you knew I was writing this letter to you, you would laugh. You would tell me not to be sappy and sentimental. You would sweep it under the rug and pretend it never happened. And you would probably pretend that you’re okay.

But you would still say thank you, and might even send me a virtual hug. Thanks in advance.

And you’re not okay. You don’t have to pretend that with me. The façade is slightly convincing, dear; I’ll give you that. But sometimes your mask slips. Sometimes, at 11:30 PM, the façade starts to be less convincing. I go for days without hearing from you, and then I’ll randomly hear from you, hearing that you’re eating jelly beans and questioning every supposition you’ve ever held.

You don’t know. That is your mind right now. You aren’t sure who you are. You aren’t sure why you’re here. You aren’t sure who or what God is. And you aren’t sure what that “God” would want to do with your past. You aren’t sure if any of the people around you have really known “God”, because a lot of people are fakes. And you don’t want to be a fake. You want to feel, and you want to understand, and you want to know, and you want to be. That’s all. You want to be, and you want, in your being, to be at least somewhat…un-fake. Legitimate. Real.

Even if it means discarding every supposition and preconceived religious notion in your head, you want to be a real person. You don’t want to deny your humanness. You want to have compassion for other humans. Whatever “answer” you find, you want it to enable you to be beautifully transparent and humbly real.

I want you to know that I already see you like that. Some days I can taste the apathy in your words; you hate how fake everyone is. Some days I can feel the fear in your voice; you aren’t sure where your searching will lead. But everyday, I marvel at what a beautiful person you are. You have been real with me. You have been reserved in your authenticity, in your signature INTP way, but nevertheless: you have been authentic. And it is beautiful. You’ve shouldered my pain with me; you’ve let me shoulder yours’. You’ve irritably asked every question; you’ve bravely searched for the answers. You’ve heard my dark secrets; you’ve showed me that I am not a dark person. You’ve hugged me and told me you loved me, just once. And I hugged you right back and told you I loved you too, just once, because you are an incredible person. Your soul is beautiful. Struggles never cheapen the value of a soul.

And of course you don’t see yourself like that. But let that spark out every once in a while. I know you’re brave enough.

And yes, I am being sappy and sentimental. Some sappy things are just worth saying.

-

Letter #3: Puzzle Pieces

Dear you,

“Short on breath, heavy on time: you lost the words, but you found the rhyme. It’s all just poetry now. And the walls are singing hallelujah, amen.”

-Paradise Fears lyrics

We’ve grown apart this year. It’s sad. Our little gang was so great. It was you, her, and me – the third wheel. I was always fine with that. I’m good at being awkward, so being in an awkward position made me feel at home. Pooh, Tigger, and Rabbit were the greatest in all the Hundred Acre Woods. I liked us.

And then life. Jobs. Graduation. Debate. Crumbling families. Stuff got in the way. We aren’t exactly the Hundred Acre Wood gang anymore. But both of you still mean a lot to me. We haven’t talked much lately. You don’t know what’s on my mind anymore. You don’t hear my depressing rants anymore. You don’t reproach me (as often) anymore. You’re still my big brother, but things are weird. You barely know me, and I hardly know you.

Seeing as how close we used to be, I’ve heard your testimony a lot. I’ve felt the pain from your story personally. You’ve cried to me, and I’ve listened, and I’ve hurt for you. But every time I hear it, it has a different impact. I meant it when I told you that. Your testimony is incredible, not because you’ve written a beautiful story, but because God drastically altered the plot in your story. And you didn’t expect it. You’ve just dealt with it the best you can. I get that.

You were sitting across the aisle from me during the evening devotion at Teenpact. I opened my favorite purple notebook; it’s like a journal to me. And you saw. You asked to read what I wrote. But I couldn’t let you. It was too personal then. But I want to tell you part of what I wrote. The part you glimpsed. It was one of those letters that I would never send, addressed to someone else.

“I feel like a failure. I feel screwed-up and tarnished and disadvantaged, and then some days, I feel like I am the screw-up; I am the tarnish; I am the disadvantage. And don’t give me the psychological crap that ‘I’m worth it’ and all that stuff. Even it were true, I’m so upset right now that I wouldn’t listen to you. This is weird, but I need someone here right now. Need a hand to hold. Just a warm hand. I don’t know why, but maybe it would still the hurricane within me. Maybe it would make some things better, just to know that someone is there, just to hold a hand in the darkness. How would it make me less of a failure? It wouldn’t. How would it make me less of a screw-up? It wouldn’t. How would it help? I don’t know.”

That’s what I wrote. Can you relate? If you can – and I think that you can – I hope you know that I understand. I hope you know that I feel the pain. I hope you know that your story, and the pieces to your puzzle, have breathed beautiful beginnings into my lungs. Every time you give your testimony, it has a different impact. Every time you talk about the puzzle pieces, I realize that God still holds mine. Even if I do feel like a failure.

We aren’t as close as we were, but your story will never cease to humble and stir my heart. I love you.

 -

Letter #2: Shiny-tops and Soda Pops

Dear you,

"Dead-leaves and the dirty ground when I know you’re not around. Shiny-tops and soda pops when I hear your lips make a sound.”

-The White Stripes lyrics

Hi. It’s me again. Ever feel like we have a weird, wonderful thing? I feel like that all the time. This is an interesting friendship. Haven’t known you that long, but it’s been great. From sitting on my roof talking late at night, to singing random songs at random times, to trading tiny notes, to sharing deep painful secrets – this has been great.

Thank you for that. It’s meant a lot.

You said something one time that was lovely. “I just want to give a safe haven for you. That's it. A little bubble set apart where you can talk about anything or tell me anything or just be yourself.” And I said you could be that for me, if you would let me be that for you. I want to be that for you. You should have somebody like that. Somebody safe and quiet and okay. I want to be a person like that for you.

But being your friend is kind of hard. I like it, don’t get me wrong. But in a way, it is hard. The hardest thing about knowing you is that I enjoy knowing you. It's weird, but that is hard, for some reason. When you tell me something, I mentally lock it up and guard it and savor it. I don’t even know why. I love figuring out the bits and pieces that make you who you are. I like figuring people out to begin with, but you have this thing where you keep me guessing. It’s neat. I like figuring out stuff about you. You’re unpredictable in a sane sort of way. Sometimes you remind me of myself. A lot. And that’s cool too. I just like getting to know you.

Maybe I’ve treasured everything about you.

And sometimes you tell me something about you that says you’re hurting. And I always have this overwhelming desire to say or do all the right stuff to make you feel better, and not hurt. But I never can. I feel so paralyzed. And that’s the second hardest thing about knowing you, that I’m not sure what to do with knowing you. It’s lame, isn’t it? But yeah. Being your friend is hard, because I feel like I should do so much better.

If I could, I'd make it all better. I don't know what you need; I remain clueless. But I want to help, and I would, if you'd let me. I could make you warm cookies, or sing your favorite songs. I could slow-dance with you. I could listen to you rant about it all, over a mug of your ever-faithful, French-pressed, half-caffeinated/half-decaf coffee. I could hold your hand, and squeeze it ever so often, just to let you know that someone's there. I could play you dumb YouTube videos, or just sit and be there with you - not judging, not jumping to hasty conclusions, not rebuking - but just understanding, listening, accepting you fully. I hope you know that I do accept you fully. I understand. I'm not judging. I appreciate you.

And yet, I remain so incapacitated. 

But I think it’s lovely that you don’t really judge me on my incapacitatedness. (ß I made up a word, I think.) And I won’t judge you either. So yeah…just a note to tell you being your friend is hard, but I think it’s worth it anyways. Not trying to make you feel bad or awkward or anything. You’re cool. Don’t worry.

Ugh. This isn’t how I wanted to say it.

You just never get old to me. I don’t get tired of you. So let’s keep this up.

-

Letter #1: Sweet Pea

Dear you,

“I’m like the rack of your brassier – I always seem to falter, and the words just get in the way.”

-Amos Lee lyrics

We’ve been together for quite a while now. Not romantically “together”, but just together. In friendship. In a sort of life-partnership way. Just as two kids, who slightly hate each other, tackling life together. I love how we kind of hate each other and how we hate all the same things. And because we hate the same things, we love each other. Our relationship is quirky and no one understands it, except us. Our friends think we’re crazy. People get concerned about us. People come up to us and ask. They wonder if we’re okay.

And sometimes, we aren’t okay. I get really ticked at you sometimes. You get really ticked at me sometimes. Sometimes we don’t even tell each other how ticked off we get. But we always tell everyone else how ticked off we are. Maybe that’s why people are concerned. I’m not entirely sure.

We’re not very loyal to each other, you and me. We stab each other in the back. I don’t know if you ever feel that way, but I do. I know I’ve stabbed you in the back before. And for that, I’m sorry. The thing is, I kind of care about what you think. I’m not always conscious of that fact. But I do care. And sometimes I am so scared of telling you when I’m angry at you, because…well, I don’t know. I’m kind of scared of how you’ll react; I’m scared of hurting our friendship; I’m scared of hurting you. Even though I don’t act like I care, I do. I don’t know why I talk to everybody else before I talk to you. I shouldn’t do that. I should get over this fear of hurting you, because the backstabbing hurts you worse.

I have lots of “adopted siblings”. But maybe you’re most realistically my sibling. We’ve spent that much time together, and we’ve fought enough. We look nothing alike and our personalities are insanely different. We both look down on each other. (Admit it.) We both slightly hate each other. And I’m not going to pretend that we don’t tick each other off, because we do. A lot. I just want you to know that I actually like who you are, even though I don’t act like it. And I love you, too. I don’t understand how much I love you. I don’t understand it because it so inaccurately reflects my actions towards you. We’re jerks to each other 80% of the time. And yet I really love you, and it’s weird, and it’s awesome, and nobody understands this dynamic except us.

We’re cool. Bowties are cool. Cheers to us, and cheers to the oddness.

-

April Letter Project

Dear blogosphere buddies,

It is now the month of April, and I have a juicy idea. Let’s do something new. Let’s do something fun. Let’s do something juicy.

Isn’t a scrumptious idea? Doing juicy things is always an excellent plan. And in this case, the juicy plan is even more excellent. For the month of April, I’m turning this blog into an anonymous letter project. You probably guessed that I adore writing. Well, I further adore writing letters, and so, I’m going to. (Dangling preposition; eek, so sorry.) This entire month, I shall post anonymous letters, written by yours’ truly, to some anonymous recipient. No two recipients will be the same. I’m not sharing the identities of the persons I address in my letters. But there you have it. The April Anonymous Letter Project. It will be anonymous. It will be full of letters. It will be in April, and it is my latest project. Thus, the April Anonymous Letter Project.

Tada.

I hope this project will personify the humanness of emotion. I hope you will get a glimpse into my heart, and who I am, in all my humanness. I hope you will be able to see that, in the end, we’re a crazy bunch of people. We all need love. We all need hope. We all are hurting, and in the end, not everybody makes it. Fairytales don’t exist. And it really hurts sometimes. But sometimes, just sometimes, there is an overwhelming prick of beauty above the atmosphere. And it is so lovely. May this project embody that.

-