Dearest YOU,
It is dark outside my window and cold inside my apartment. The weak light of the moon, a candle, and a computer screen are the only things lighting up my way through these keys. My soul, heavy heart, accelerated mind, and overthinking nature, my way through these words. A coffee -three tablespoons of sugar and ¼ cup of lactose-free milk- a couple of songs from my overplayed Spotify playlist, and these feelings jumping out of my chest are my only company. And, at least for tonight, I need nothing more. Running from here to there and then back to here, with books in hand and million facts in mind, I often forget to carry my heart. I walk by a million faces every day, yet I rarely stop to look at mine. And I answer a thousand questions, yet I forget to ask myself mine. Maybe I am afraid to face them. Or perhaps I have already answered them all in one of the many nights of insomnia I often experience. The truth is: playing them in my head like a broken record and echoing their answers gets tougher with time, but so do I. Today -between the excitement of not having pending assignments and the evergreen need to be doing something- I decided to do me. Question me. Answer me. Write to me. And this letter, growing with every sentence, is the product of such a scary but thrilling decision.
I like to think that life, or the universe, or whoever gifted me with a passionate soul. And I refer to it as a gift because it has been my passion that has gotten me through the hardest of times, assignments, and existential crises. But with my passion also came an ardent soul and a wandering mind – both traits beautiful on their own but quite nerve-wracking when side by side. For when I love, I love too much. When I care, I give it all. When I hurt, I turn to dust. And if I do not, I’m way too cold.
Finding a balance between “too much” and “not enough.” The being too “warm” or too “cold.” And the always “yes” and sometimes “no” is, to say the least, excruciating. And so I ask myself if the people for whom I ask myself these questions take a minute to interrogate themselves with them, too. Most of the time, the cruel answer is no. So why do I keep doing it? Why do I care too much? Why does giving the cold shoulder stabs me more than it does them? Why do I stay up at night taking x-rays of my words and actions, trying to find the littlest fracture and heal it? I guess, at the end of the day, the answer to all of these questions remains the same. This is just who I am.
But what happens when accumulated disappointment takes over after having prolonged its appearance for such a long time? What happens when I finally start taking x-rays of others’ words and actions towards me and find that they have, indeed, fractured my heart? Loss of balance. Chaos. Uncertainty. And so I respond. I speak up. I become a cold front on the outside to keep myself warm on the inside. And suddenly, they dislike it. Suddenly, my past efforts, unconditional love, and sincere care become fragments of nothing lost in the galaxy. And their words attack, sharper than knives of indifference, questioning, ironically, how in the world dare I speak my wounded heart at the risk of wounding theirs. How dare I not meet the expectations that have been carefully crafted, for years, to fit me. But is that true? Or have I -or the idea of me – instead been crafted in their heads to fit such expectations. Either way, I am not and shall be not a frame made to fit a specific picture nor a picture made to fit a specific frame. Especially when I am neither the photographer nor frame-maker.
For years, I let situations that harmed me slip, protecting everything and everyone else but me. I was convinced that staying quiet and eating up my feelings like one eats ice cream from its container at 2:00 am when everyone is resting was an act of love, for a wise person once told me that love is sacrifice. And he was not wrong. Love is indeed sacrificing, but that love does not only necessarily apply to the one you give to everyone else. It also applies to the love you have for yourself. I neglected it way too long, but recently, I’ve come to realize that it is you, Brenda, that I owe an apology to. It is your soul, Brenda, the one I should be taking care of. Your heart, the one I should mend at all times; your questions, the ones I should be answering during those nights of inevitable insomnia. And your frame, the one I should be the carefully crafted picture for. For only when I learn to love YOU, protect YOU, and embrace YOU, fast-paced mind, ecstatic heart, overthinking, and perfectionist YOU, will I be able to do the same with others. Always intensely and fully and sincerely but never emotionally irresponsible to you.
Love,
YOU.