Balling It Up and Throwing It Away

Dear New Kid,       

I’m sorry. I’m also sorry I’m addressing this letter—you, really—as ‘New Kid.’ But I want to get down to the bare bones of the matter. I extremely apologize for being so ignorant. I mean, I didn’t mean to laugh at you in the playground game back in 5^th grade, but I did—in a way. But just hear me out: I didn’t laugh at you. I merely laughed in a way that would hopefully make everyone hear my kind of laughter so we wouldn’t laugh at you. I don’t really know how to explain it. I just wish you would understand. But here it goes—I was laughing at the situation. I was laughing so everyone would hear my laughter at the situation, not at you. I’m sorry I made you feel stupid and outcast and loser. You know what—I shouldn’t have even laughed. That wasn’t nice. I should’ve rounded everyone up and told them to laugh at themselves or something else funny about the incident. But I allowed everyone to laugh at you. And I’m sorry.     

I don’t really know how to make up for it. I was immature, an elementary schooler—11. Some friends came to my crazy, pony-themed birthday to celebrate my…      

You know what? I’m tired of talking about me. I’ve talked about me since 5^th grade. Since that incident out during recess with all those mean people (maybe me, too). Now, I want to ask you—will you forgive me? For laughing at you? Will you accept my apology—this letter? I really wish you would’ve spoken up about it. You could’ve told me—I know, I’m talking about me again! But you were hurt, and I could’ve told you that I didn’t mean to mock you. You, I believe, are part of this situation. Holding it all in is not good. I don’t understand why you wouldn’t have told me. It wasn’t like I was going to gossip about or slander you. You seemed like a great kid—new, but that nickname doesn’t mean anything to me. Really. I’m sorry I did what I did. But let’s try to leave it all behind and start over, okay?      

Hey—do you have anything planned to do today? Do you have a minute, because I would really—I mean, you could spend some quality time with me. I’ll have hot chocolate and brownies ready for us so you can just walk in the door and close it. Slam it if you need to, because the past is the past. Slam it in front of the snow, the cold, the hurt. I hurt, for you. I hurt from your silence. I hurt from your refusal to speak to me for the past seven years. And even now. I tried calling you, but why didn’t you pick up the phone?

I’ll make brownies and hot chocolate. Just please, please, please invite me into your life again. I won’t laugh. I won’t mock. I won’t do anything that has, will or does hurt you. I just wanted your forgiveness. I wanted to talk to you at the senior ball. I wanted to sit down with you and swing on the hammock at Georgiana’s summer birthday party before she left for college three weeks later. I wanted to invite you over, to help you understand you weren’t at fault for being the new kid.   

You know what? I was the new kid in fourth grade. I didn’t know anyone. I got laughed at, pushed down, passed by, almost shoved into a locker. Actually, I did. Slammed right into the locker Broccoli (whatever nickname that is) and Samantha would slip notes in—ugly notes about me because, yes, I was the new kid. But I have forgiven Samantha, and she works with me at our flower boutique. I just want to say that you may be holding on to something you should let go of. I’m not saying you are the villain, but in a way, you are. You don’t talk to me, so I don’t know whether I should even continue writing this letter. Should I give up? Maybe this letter isn’t even worth it. But I think you should seriously consider my adamancy on being forgiven. I’m truly sorry. I’m not like Broccoli (whose real name is Coleton), who just spat bitter words at people or yelled rude things to adults whenever he was mad. That was back in third grade from Natalie and Nicole. But they’ve grown up with me, telling me Coleton has a lot of… things to work on. I don’t know what, but he’s not me. And I’m not him.

I want you to forgive me. I don’t want you to be bitter. Bitterness is expecting the other person to die from the poison you’re slowly dying from. I don’t know how to make sense of that, but I just want to say you’re slowly dying from all this ugly past you can overcome. We can overcome together—me forgiving you and you forgiving me, if you would like us to overcome together. But it’s up to you.

I’m not sure what Brittany, Stephanie, Luke, Lucy, Brandon, Brenden, Randy, Randall, Scott and Penelope are doing now. But I’m sure they’re sweet, at least the girls. The guys—they may shake others’ hands. Heck, they may slap others on the back at church or during a prayer meeting. I don’t know. But I’m sure, now that we’re all getting married and graduating from college, we’re not gawking at someone’s broken leg, letting them suffer for however long we’re enjoying their painful moment. We’re done with that. And I want you to be done with your bitterness. Because I know it is slowly killing you.    

So I pray, and hope, that you will dissolve yourself of such emotional baggage. Please—let this leave you as you come to sit with me on the back porch with the walnut swing bench and decadent flower pots showing off their hot pink Carnations probably satisfied from their thirst for more water from the snow. I would just like you to know that I care about you. That I want you to stop drowning in such self-eroding, abysmal emotion. I may not have cared back in elementary school; I was foolish to believe I made you think I laughed at you. I moved on from the cool gang; the group with all the signs, hats and those pictured sweatshirts. I’m alone now. I thought maybe we could take a walk in the park if you’re up to it instead of sit and feast on chocolate, fattening, carb-heavy brownies and sugar-heavy hot chocolate. But if you want to, we can just have some hot tea. Not even anything to eat. Whatever you want.   

Well, I’m enclosing this letter with hope you would take what I say to heart and dwell on it. Because you will defeat the enemy of bitterness if you replace this destruction with hope. I don’t want you to go hungry. From the lack of forgiveness. I may be speaking jargon, but I don’t want you to starve yourself. Just come over for some cup of joy and plate of refreshment.

Sincerely,

Cameron  

I glowered so hard at the letter I was surprised no holes burned through it. My hands started shaking, and I nearly shredded it before I took a second to cool down. For I knew Cameron wasn’t all worth punching mentally. But, simultaneously, Cameron didn’t know me. She didn’t even know my name. My hot face from being exposed to the fireplace’s flickering flames roaring right before me were about to see this letter added to the ash heap of Cameron’s previous notes. But deep down, I also felt guilty. The sparks shot guilt in me. But I wasn’t ready to forgive. And felt I couldn’t. Maybe if I really thought about it, I’d be willing to sit down with this letter’s author and see whether we even had a relationship in the first place—did we start out with one, or did our relationship end the day she had mocked me? And how it could mend. But because of my bitterness licking inside of me with all its heat—its hot, fuming fire consuming my ability to graciously forgive—I couldn’t.      

At the same time, I knew I needed to let go. I needed to set free what I have been grasping like a suitcase for the last seventeen or eighteen years. It’s been so long. I could stand in front of those Carnations—or I could smile bitterly at this fireplace, its flames cheering my bitterness on towards hatred and eventually vengeance. But I thought about the choices I were to make—whether to see the snow of bitterness melt into those thirsty plants just like forgiveness melt away all the bitterness inside me, or let the flames of the fire fuel this grudge. I thought about—maybe—I can tuck this letter of hope under all my other love letters from my parents, grandparents and now even Cameron. Because, though I never said anything, Cameron’s been loving towards me. She was the bright sun trying to shine through my closed window of doubt, misery and depression. She exclaimed when I had pouted, celebrated when I had retreated into anger and jumped for joy when I had shriveled up in a ball of self-pity. She was the sunshine, whereas I was the cloud bursting with grey, dirty rain. Maybe if I open up—I let the sun shine through—then I’ll be better. Be a better person. Want to go. Want to live. Want to be open to others instead of clammed up because Bitterness hated Forgiveness.   

I grabbed my iPhone laying on the small, round marble table besides my favorite rope weaved couch and dialed Cameron’s number.  

“Hi.”

“Hi!” The bubbly voice startled me. “Did you want to stop by? I already made brownies.”

“Oh.” I shrugged, imagining her smile wide. “I don’t really feel the mood to go today. Or eat brownies. I’ll think about it.”

“Okay.”

Click. The phone finally reading Call Ended, I tossed it lamely onto the dark blue and coral flowered carpet, went to go snatch some Cheetos from the kitchen pantry and finally befriend the remote control. But I thought about my phone. Cameron had offered, despite a long letter I almost threw away in the fire. I hated reading long letters. But…she seemed so kind. My shoulders fell.                

But I balled it up, and the fire slowly wilted it down to ashes. Like myself inside. “Stop telling me I’m bitter. I’m not. I never was!” I growled at the charcoaling shreds of paper. And went to text this Cameron.

I’m not going. Ever.

A splashing effect followed by a Hey! Sorry about that popped up. I shut my phone off and dropped it. And then scrambled for it, turned it on and called my best friend from way over in Vermont.

“Want to hang? Come down if you want.”

“Sure. What’s the deal?”

I didn’t tell her. We were just silent, and then she told me she’d pack her bags. I didn’t know when she’d get here, but I knew. I knew she’d replace Cameron. And her letter. And her life.

Maybe Cameron would move on. Stop trying to buy my ‘thank you’ when I had stopped buying her ‘I’m sorry’ or ‘forgive me.’ Or buying into it. Whatever she would phrase it.   

I didn’t know. Was Cameron going to stop? Was Cameron ever going to move on? Did she even care that I didn’t care anymore? Did she even know whether I had other friends who would never bug me like this? Did she…know? Care? Think about it? Go beyond ‘New Kid’?!