To You, From Me.
I started writing letters my freshman year of college. Before that, I’d scribble my friends notes on occasion, when the mood struck or on their birthdays.
But freshman year? It became an obsession.
Like I said last week, my self-expression gets caught somewhere between my chest and my mouth. I’m prone to asking friends, “Can I say something?” and when they nod yes, working my jaw for the following five minutes, trying to wrestle the words out of my throat.
That’s just with everyday emotions, too. Like when a Thursday has kicked my butt or a friend blew me off or guilt eats up my heart for no real reason. Those kind of things are hard enough to express.
Then you have the l-word.
LOVE.
Horrifying.
I’m not just talking about romantic love, either. (That’s a whole other bushel of snakes.) Friend-love scares the snot out of me, too. It’s like Superman just walking up to everyday citizens of Metropolis and just. Handing out kryptonite.
Except instead of chiseled, spandex-clad, hero, it’s me. And instead of green, glowing space dust, it’s my feelings.
You wanna destroy me?
Well, here’s a sure-fire way to do that.
Sharing how I feel with others feels a lot like getting the covers pulled off in the morning. Suddenly, my soul is bare and raw in the cold morning light, revealing all the ugly sleep-mussed hair and knock-em-dead morning breath. Nowhere to hide.
Sometimes I wish I was more bold. I wish I could scream I love you to my friends. Compliment strangers with reckless abandon. Say thank you to the people who have saved my life. I wish I could drop the cynicism and sarcasm that I guard myself with.
Edging every word with a humour-lining may protect me, sure.
But it also robs me of genuineness. And risk and reward. And vulnerability.
So I started writing letters. And now, I can tow the line between courage and cowardliness. I hide behind scraps of notebook pages and index cards and post-it notes and any other piece of paper on which I can scribble my thoughts and feelings.
Rather than have to figure out the right timing or make eye contact or try not to cry, I can just write how much people mean to me. And then I can stuff the thoughts and feelings into an envelope and drop the envelope in their bag and walk away.
Rather than having to wait in awkward silence for them to respond, I can lob a note of thanks or appreciation or love at them and run away. If they don’t reciprocate, fine. We’ll never talk about it again.
Letters are little ferry boats I can send my feelings on. Like a pulley clothesline that lets me shoot out all the words that I’m too scared and too uncomfy to just say in person.
They let me express myself freely, without snarky jokes, but protect me enough that I’m not so scared I’ll get tossed out with the trash.
Not to mention, there are lots and lots of things I’d like to say to people, but can’t find the words for. My heart feels like it’s going to explode sometimes. The only way to keep it from bursting is to write. Let all the swallowed words flood out.
So I write my best friends letters. A lot. I jot them down between pages of class notes, and carry tiny notecards with me at all times, and slide countless envelopes into their mailboxes.
It’s a chance to say all the things I want to say, but know that I don’t have the courage for.
I think we’ve done a fantastic job in the past two centuries at improving quality of life. We got rid of asbestos and figured out vaccines and stopped putting lead in paint. No more hoop skirts, segregation, or women’s suffrage. All great things. Seriously. Wouldn’t trade them for the world.
But we’ve seriously lost the art of letter-writing.
