Learning Forgiveness: A Letter to My Adaptive Child

    I was unsure how to open this letter, as in truth I have only come to know your name very recently. It seems odd to think that you have been with me all this time, so integrated into my daily life, and not once had I truly seen you. I did not even know to look.

    Though, I suppose that is how you have always worked, and how those who might be of your vocation in real life might even prefer to work.

    You are, of course, a bodyguard—though, it is a disservice to leave your title so generic, and with the warzones you have passed through it is more realistic to liken you to a solider. Even then, though, you are more of a Special Forces operator than anything: someone who remains unseen, and has to adapt and react to any situation without direct assistance (or maybe any assistance) from a higher authority.

    Your mission has always seemed simple on the surface, right? It was to simply survive, after all; it was not something that many would reason to be so difficult in an era where one can visit a grocery store to find food, and visit hospitals when seriously ill. After all, you were with me, a girl who had two parents, a more than comfortable home to live in, and had no want of food, drink, or material things.

    But we have never believed in physical things being the root of all good, right? Sometimes those gilded pleasures are more of a cage than anything. Maybe that is what you walked into.

    I do not really know when you arrived. Was it the first time I was yelled at by my parents for being attention seeking? Was it when my little sister was born, and I was confused as to why I did not feel as important as I was before? Or were those fine, and you did not appear until I met others my own age and discovered that I did not fit—like a puzzle piece that was in the wrong box?

    It must have been an unseemly visual either way for you to take one look and conclude that this was life or death, that I was helpless and in need of your protection. Was that fair to yourself, I wonder? After all, you were no older than me; but you were born of hardship. Perhaps that was the only difference between us.

    And since you have come, I have never been alone. You have done so much from the shadows, using what you knew and what you learned to keep me safe. You are my biggest ally, and I know that every single thing you have done has been for me.

    That is why I want to say thank you. The world outside is dangerous, and often frightening and overwhelming. You led me through the dark when I would have been likely to give up and simply wait to waste away.

    This could not have been easy.

    And that is why, my proud solider, I am hereby relieving you of duty. I cannot give you a medal like some war heroes, but in my mind you have earned one a thousand times over. It is because of you that I am able to stand here today and write you, and I think it is time that our relationship is no longer as one sided as it had been in the past.

    Your protection has allowed me to grow, and with my new perspective I believe I am capable of handling whatever hardships come my way. You have taught me to no longer be the damsel in distress, waiting for you to come and be my knight; instead, I am ready to enter the officer's academy on my own and learn to fend for myself.

    I am no longer the bleeding child, so blinded by her own tears that I could not face dangers. All these years, you have been the one leading the way, me little more than a frightened responsibility for you to watch over—but now I can help you.

    You deserve a rest after so many years of perpetual service, and though none other than me may ever know who you are, I am honored that you thought I was worthy enough to devote such efforts to. After all, if you were willing to go to such lengths, why should I do any less for myself?

    I am old enough now to know that life is not going to be perfect; no war is without cost, after all. You strove so hard to keep my heart from hurting, and perhaps when I feel that first discomfort you might think I have betrayed you, your mission, and all the work that you have done for me. Still, my friend, there are more than just bad types of pain. Growth is painful. Change is painful. That does not mean, however, what will be beyond those discomforts is not worth the temporary struggle.

    We will never know unless we walk forward, and I think we are both tired of running from trench to trench, dodging familiar bullets and reopening the same wounds.

    You have done so well with what you knew, and now I, with the years of experience I have earned because of your strength and grace, can lead us to a different place. Allow me to take the baton so that you might rest.

    I promise, when you wake up, the world is going to be a bit brighter. Then, maybe, we can be more like equals—you have dedicated so much—done so much—there is no reason you should not be rewarded too; after all, we only got this far because of you.

 

Sincerely,

K

 

 

Learning Forgiveness: A Letter to My Bullies

 To my fellow explorers,

 

            This letter will never reach you, for I have long lost contact with all of you. Too many years have passed us by, and your voyages took you down roads that have not intersected with mine—and I would be lying if I said this was not a somewhat pleasing phenomenon. I wonder if all of you even remember me, if hearing my name conjures to mind any sort of image at all, or if it is merely static in your memories that would make you hum and ask, “who was that, again?”

            Perhaps it is better for you if I have faded from recollection, because surely if the memories for you are as vivid as they are for me, you would be burdened with guilt. Like me, you would carry the weight of every single tear I shed in response to the jibes you launched, and would recognize in your memories the ache of loneliness in my eyes as you rallied the other children around to do the same. Surely now, over twenty years removed from the children that you were, you would know your actions as bullying, and cringe at how you had acted.

            Now you might have children of your own; perhaps they are going through that which I once wrestled with day in and day out.

            Maybe they are called fat, too. Maybe the lunch table is full of people making fun of their eating habits. If this is the case, I recommend keeping a close eye on them; there is a good chance that they, too, will struggle with eating disorders if you turn a blind eye.

Maybe they are being called stupid because of a wrong answer spoken aloud in the classroom, or even for trying to defend themselves against an onslaught of verbal attacks of weaponized conjectures that other people have decided were fact.

Maybe they are also being told that it is no wonder they have no friends, or that nobody would ever love someone as ugly as them.

If they are, I wonder—does any of it sound familiar?

            I heard often how “kids will be kids, and kids can be cruel”, though the words that were meant to comfort did little to actually assist. I remember being so afraid of going to class each day that I wondered what it would be like to simply not exist at all—a question I once voiced at the tender age of eight, sending my mother spiraling into a panic about my mental state. However, as you have likely grown and changed, so have I. Time granted perspective, though it took me longer to achieve than I would like.

            You see, I spent the best years of my life living in fear, crying in darkness because at every turn, my life seemed inclined to prove that all of the bullies were right. That you, fellow explorers, were right.

I cowered behind walls that I built, making sure that nobody could dare step foot through my front gate. Being alone was easier than being hurt, and I relinquished all teenage milestones in favor of that safety. Parties, gossipy sleepovers, trips with the girls, first dates, first kisses—the list of sacrifices grew with each year, and all because I could still hear the echoes of your cruel words when I was alone.

To you, I was little more than a blip on your radar. To me, you were my leviathan.

To tell you the truth, I would not say that I have recovered from those years. In fact, it has taken me until my thirties to even try and wrestle with the damage those things caused. Until recently, I even felt as if I deserved the treatment that I received, because in my head there was nothing outright untrue in what you told me. I was fat, I was ugly. I never could get a date, so I was obviously unlovable.

These are wrong, of course; still, for the sake of this letter, I have a different truth that needs to be known: even if I was the fattest, ugliest, and most unlovable person in all the universe, it never once meant I deserved your cruelty. There is no magic ratio that says this level of unattractiveness deserves this treatment in answer. And there is not one for intelligence, either.

All I did was exist; it was your choice to speak the way you did, and to do the things you did.

In a way I understand. You were exploring the world the same way I was, and at the time our experiences were limited. In some cases, some of you knew that if you did not treat me the way the others did, it would have been you drawn and quartered in the halls—and you were afraid.

And, while I hope that the years have been kind to you, and that you have learned to paddle your oars without rocking someone else’s boat, that, too, is not what this letter is for. I am writing to you now for one simple reason, and that is to let you know I forgive you.

Life has no guidebooks, and some people do not have figures in their lives to help with navigating difficult currents. Our younger years—everyone’s younger years—are peppered with mistakes made while trying to explore boundaries and learn what being alive actually entails. Like me, you were merely trying to make the best of a world you could not have been expected to fully understand.

Likely as you aged you learned how to explore in gentler, less cruel ways. And if you can change, I should as well. Twenty-two years is far too long to hide myself away, and I no longer want to live with your ghosts. With this forgiveness as my knife, I am cutting myself free.

May we both find better, more peaceful waters.

 

In hope,

K

 

 

A Letter to My Younger Self

 Dear Kate,

    I thought about addressing it to 'Katie', the name that seems to roll off the lips of anyone who meets you, but I know better than to think that's what you would prefer. You always thought Kate sounded prettier, more 'princess-y', and I actually quite agree. You would be excited to learn that there is a crown princess in England even as I write this that sports the name herself, though I'm afraid that nobody ever learned to call you that; by the time everyone realized you were serious about not liking 'Katie' very much, the habit had grown deep roots. It's not all a loss, though, because while that nickname stuck around, now more people call you 'Kathryn' than anything else, and I've found it's not quite the old lady name you think it is.

    You're probably confused, reading this letter as if it's written by someone who knows you, but I promise: while I might not be entirely recognizable to you, you are very much recognizable to me. You're the epitome of a dreamer, the girl who looks at the future with hope, and trusts God to provide. In fact, you dreamed and hoped and trusted so thoroughly, that I think I still hear you sometimes. 

    You're the voice that whispers to me to take a chance, the one who says, "It might work this time!" when I'm standing at a crossroads doing the adult duty of weighing pros and cons, and fear starts to set in. I still house the echoes of your dreams like treasures in my heart, and some nights, when nobody else is around, I dream them again. You'e the one who tells me that it can still get better, even though I would likely never repeat it alongside you. 

    I'm afraid the visions and desires for our future that you entrusted to me did not bear fruit the way we wanted. Likely, you would be disappointed to see them now; many are cracked and broken, the roads I chose to lead us down proving a bit too rough for the fragile boxes I had packed them in. Others I traded away, thinking that their value would buy me safety when I needed it the most. 

    While I could make excuses, while I could tell you that the world was meaner, and the universe crueler than you ever could have imagined, I believe that would be a disservice to you. I know better than anyone else how it felt to ask to use the restroom during elementary school just to have some time to cry. How, despite the fact there were so many people around, just like you, you felt like you were all alone. I remember the heat that took over your body when Mrs. Aukamp in third grade told the class, "And people think this kid is gifted? Shows how far our standards have fallen" after you made a mistake on the math problem on the chalkboard. I remember how everyone laughed, how a piece of you crumpled and wondered if they were right. 

    So no, I cannot point to the potholes, the storms, the pain that came in waves as I tried to navigate life's waters and claim you were naive and blind, because the truth is the world was never crueler than you expected. You knew better than most your age how horrible people could be, that there was always going to be something that would make you cry, that would make you feel like you did not belong. 

    The difference between you and I is that you had faith that our ship would hold against the raging seas, and I grew tired and lowered the sails. 

    There is a quote that I have stumbled upon in my journey, one that makes me think of you: 

 

"An entire sea of water can't sink a ship unless it gets inside the ship. Similarly, the negativity of the world can't put you down unless you allow it to get inside you."

-Goi Nasu 

 

    When it was my turn to take the helm, you handed me the halyard and tiller, the colorful maps of undiscovered places you knew were somewhere in the expanse beyond. You trusted me to voyage the waters for you, to find our home, but the smaller your voice became, the harder it was for me to bail our ship after a storm, and eventually I grew so tired of repairs that I let myself wallow in the water and no longer prayed for help. 

    There are no excuses for what I let happen to our ship, nor the treasures I traded away. Instead, I would like to apologize, because I lost sight of the things that mattered to you most. I know that "sorry"s, no matter how sincere, mean very little to you, so I would like to make you a promise instead. Our little broken ship carried me far enough that I think I've found a port. I am finally asking for help; I am going to repair our treasures, and I'm going to fix our ship. I'm going to try again, and do better.

    I cannot promise I can save everything. Your dreams were so big and so irreplaceable that some might not be reparable even by the most skilled of workers. However, what I can promise is that I'm going to navigate our waters as best as I can so that someday, when we reach our final anchor, you and I can disembark as one, hand in hand, and you won't resent me or regret allowing me to sail. 

    I know you've waited a long time for for life to turn around, but I think if anyone is patient enough to give a poor navigator a second chance at using your maps, it's you: the czarina who wanted to save dragons instead of slay them, and who valued kindness above beauty. 

    So keep dreaming big and loud--this time, I'll do better at listening. 

Forever yours, 

Kathryn  

Empty Chairs and Unsent Letters

    My name is Kathryn. 

    I'm a thirty-something year old woman who was trying to navigate life when I discovered there were holes in my ship, and I was sinking. 

    This isn't really a blog I'm running because I'm some kind of expert in my field, or even one that will have weekly, consistent updates. What this is, however, is a collection of letters I will never send that give a glimpse into the raw, unrefined path of healing. I've always been one to express myself better in written word than anything else, so this is my small effort to share one big idea: if I can start my journey to heal, so can you. 

    If you're at all familiar with Gestalt therapy, you might recognize the idea behind this collection and know what to expect from it going forward. Even if its just one person, I hope someone can find comfort and inspiration in these letters just as I found in writing them. And, if by chance they can find their own courage to start their journey as well, the effort to publish these will be more than worth it. 

    The road is jagged, but the view is going to be great at the top. Hope to see you there, too. 

In victory, 

K