A Letter Better Unsent

Dear Alex,

Putting pen to paper again is a terrifying thing. Not because I’m afraid my writing is rusty after a four year hiatus or because I might not have anything of value to say. It’s terrifying because it forces me to be alone with my thoughts. You came to the conclusion that I am a confrontational person. That may be true for trivial things like demanding asking to tour the amenities of my new condo or making people agree to silly things I believe to be true, but not for private thoughts, the ones deeply rooted in my being and tucked away so far from the light that I can’t ever hope to see them. Writing makes me vulnerable, antisocial, delusional. It makes me lie. It makes me unnecessarily wring experiences out of life just so I might be able to spin a good tale. It forces forces me to hide behind my words because it’s too uncomfortable, too risky to face a straightforward truth.

Did I ever tell you that senior and freshman year I wouldn’t turn on the light in the bathroom when I went to use the sink? Don’t laugh. I’m being serious. I’d keep the door propped open enough so light from the hallway would allow me to hazily but adequately see my surroundings. The point was that I didn’t want to see my face. I didn’t want to see what I really looked like when I came into the light. There would be no place to hide and I was afraid of what I’d find. Though I in large part was avoiding what I looked like on the surface, I was also avoiding coming to terms with the fact that I’m not as great of a person as I’d hope to be, and that I knew it too. On the Internet it may look like I’ve got my whole life together to the kids back home in Vegas and the DECA members across the U.S., but in reality I’m slowly crumbling under the weight of problems I’m too weak to even acknowledge.

I don’t let other people help me because I’m self-reliant by nature and I don’t want to burden others. We all have our dragons we must slay and internal wars we must raise our swords in alone, and I choose not to be helped because the greatest monsters to fight in these battles are ultimately ourselves. I don’t think I can be helped and I don’t want to be helped either, but every now and then I would appreciate a little support. For me, this can come in the simple forms of understanding, listening, presence.

I remember one of the reasons we initially bonded is because we’re both observant people. We don’t see the world through the dull, black and white filter superimposed on the eyes of the majority. We dared to blink and break the lens, to question the world presented to us and focus our attention on the subtleties of life that convey so much yet go largely unnoticed.

I am not a generous person, but I am generous in the sense that I dedicate a lot of time and thought to understanding people. I think I try so hard to understand people because, deep down, I desperately seek to be understood. I surround myself with dozens of people, but in truth there are too few I can actually call friends. I used to think that I would be alone in this world—people would always physically be around and close, but I feared I would never find a mental and emotional intimacy that would validate my existence, my unique way of thinking and seeing. I found seeds of this intimacy as I got older; behind the stoic face of a thick-boned Korean girl in a wrinkly Corona shirt, in the neatly folded, glitter-encrusted origami notes passed by a friend who now has better things to do at Stanford, and in the toasted Peronis, late night rants, and uncontrollable laughter shared with a girl who wants to be an actress. And you know what, Alex? Sometimes even in you.

I like you Alex, as you are, whether or not you like me back or even care. And I hope you don’t feel obligated to say you like me too just because you don’t want to hurt my feelings or because you’re a guy and guys often pretend that they reciprocate feelings even though they’re really just “okay” with the situation. For some strange reason I feel compelled and safe telling you things reserved for the darkest corners of my mind, and I like that. I like that you exist and that you take the time to listen to me even though you could be doing something else. Thank you for being my friend, for reaching out to hold my hand when the MC was going to announce the next National Officer and I was nervous, and for still being somewhat eager to visit me in New York City after I rudely and deliberately disappeared on you last fall.

I like you Alex, and it makes me happy that sometimes you like me too. And perhaps I’m just a girl whose words have been tainted by a shot of dragon berry rum, but this is how I feel, and apparently at the end of the day it’s all the same thing regardless of how or why you got there.

Sincerely yours,

Cianna