To an almost friend

Dear almost- friend,

Years have passed, and I still remain the same in many ways. I’m still that young, wild, and idealistic teen. Obsessed with finding the beauty within the mundane and wanting my writing to have a beautifully poetic beginning and end. Life isn’t like that at all, though. There isn’t poetry in the hurt, surprise, or anger. But my crux has always been to dress up the things that happen to me. Weave words to make things seem far better than they were or, if I can’t dress it up, to make it poetically sad. It’s the heart of being creative and an aspiring writer who may not become one. Yet I still try, and so I write.

I guess that’s why I keep writing and re-writing letters that I know I’ll never send. I can never seem to correctly compose the words to encompass all I felt and feel now over what happened 6 years ago. I don’t know how to approach this situation besides writing what I feel or think, but it seems that, in this case, writing fails me. It never has in the past. I’ve always been able to string words that perfectly encapsulate my emotions. What fails me now is probably that I can’t intellectualize my feelings. Separate myself from that moment and pinpoint how it affected me and continues to affect me.

I don’t think you ever meant to be cruel towards me. I never did tell you that my biggest fear at 17 was to be called annoying. That, if someone were to insinuate that I was tiresome, I would take it to heart and wish to die right then and there. You see, I’ve always struggled and continue to struggle to be accepted. Back then, at 17, I wanted people to like me or at least see me as someone to like. I wanted badly to be accepted, so I made myself into what others might like.

At the age of 12, I learned that who I was wasn’t something that people liked. Always too opinionated. Too impulsive. Too assertive. Never like the sweet and kind girl that I looked to be. I had hoped that with you, I could be myself. Perhaps you’d accept me for who I was, and I can prove to myself that there was never something wrong with me in the first place.

That wasn’t the case, though, and I think it’s because I tried too hard. I kept pushing to be your friend, but friendships are a two-way street. You never wanted to know me, so I was simply the annoying brat you had to appease with one-word answers. But people given nothing will learn to drink the bare minimum and make it into something grand and exquisite enough to drink and satisfy their thirst for kindness. Unsurprisingly, you got tired and hit me unknowingly in the place that hurt most. No, you didn’t mean to be cruel when saying that I was annoying and that you had better things to do than to text me. But that doesn’t mean that you weren’t mean. That you weren’t unkind. I retaliated the best I could. The only way I knew how was to curse you out, so you blocked me.

Sometimes, I wonder if I was really that annoying. If what I texted you was truly insignificant enough to warrant that kind of reaction you had. I want to think it wasn’t a huge burden to talk to me and that what I sent wasn’t insignificant. Sure, it might have seemed that way, but it wasn’t, at least not for me. I want to think that maybe you had a bad week, and that’s why you said what you said, but you didn’t have to block me. You could have apologized. I apologized when I said something that hurt your feelings, so why was it so hard to apologize when you hurt mine? Is it because I didn’t react the way you wanted? Because I said what any defensive teenager would say? You were older than me. Shouldn’t you have known better? Shouldn’t you have been the bigger person? Shouldn’t it be me who was petty? Am I just not worth an apology?

I will never know what circumstances motivated you to do what you did or if you ever felt sorry for everything. I know that I felt sorry for cursing you out. I shouldn’t have done that; instead, I should have walked away from my phone and breathed a little. I should have responded in a better manner, but I was 17, still a child. I didn’t know a better way to react, and you never even allowed me to say sorry. You just blocked me right away. I’m sorry I am. I’m also sorry if, for any unknown reason, all my pestering triggered something in you. If maybe unknowingly, I became a memory of something you never wished to remember. It doesn’t excuse how you reacted, but it is something..I think. I forgive you, though, not because I think I was in the wrong. I don’t think there was ever a wrong or right in our situation. Only two people who were opposites and reacted the way they knew best. But I forgive you because it’s the only way for me to heal. For me to move forward and treat what happened as some distinct memory that sure was painful but no longer is pushing a shard of glass deeper and deeper.

I wish you the best wherever you are. I hope your life is everything you ever dreamed of and better than ever imagined. Am I being too kind? Perhaps, but even though I have a hard shell, I can never seem to wish someone ill. It’s who I am. An unchanging part of myself, along with the idealism, perfectionism, defensiveness, and creativity that chains me to sanity.

Farewell, almost-friend,

M