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
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