A letter to the Vulnerable

They say that everything comes from the home.  They tell us that our past experiences help shape who we are as individuals in the present.  Like much of us, I had a less than grand childhood complete with a useless, neglectful biological father and the hateful, power-hungry stepfather.  My childhood, by all means, was not lifetime movie material, so why bore you with specifics?  However, I think having those past experiences with these two as “father figures” has definitely made its lasting mark on my personality.  I, of course,  anchored myself to my mother’s side and learned to stifle all emotion and thus my “resting b*tch face” was born.   Don’t get me wrong, I am one of the nicest, most hyperactive people you’ll meet, but I taught myself to conceal any form of weakness and to trust that nobody would stick around —that humans would always fail you.  I swallowed my vulnerability and prayed to God that it would never find its way out of the back door.

I could control my emotions like a light switch.  I took pride in being hard, cold, and emotionless when I had to be.  I remember my stepdad towering above me, throwing his man tantrum while he yelled in my face.  For once, I was unfazed.  I smiled internally as I stared him straight in the eye with my best blank face.  I’d hoped that my eyes were the emptiest he’d ever seen.  Noticing my expression, he yelled in my face..

           “YOU THINK YOU’RE HARD?!”

To which I replied…

           “Do you want me to be scared of you?”

Even at that young age, vulnerability was my worst enemy.  Its shows up, unexpectedly, with good intentions, but only brings feelings of shame, guilt, and weakness.  It results in a loss of power and control, which in turn is triggers me to rule my own body with the iron fist of abuse.

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A Letter to the Anonymous

We are almost constantly subjected to the judgement of the world around us.   We are molded to fit the ideas that manifest within the minds of other people, and shoved in to small boxes, categorized by how we are expected to fit in society.   As modern society mandates, we focus on the unattainable and anyone that does not measure up is forced further into the dark corners of their neatly-labeled box.  It’s a tough world that we live and we have to strive to protect ourselves and to keep from being stifled and stamped out.  This is why there will always be a band of rebels with each new generation.  This is the reason feminism has been revitalized.  Art, music, writing, etc. exists for this purpose.  And this is why one of our greatest fall-backs will always be anonymity.

We are enabled when we can disguise ourselves with aliases or remain unknown.  Anonymity lessens the fear and embarrassment that comes with putting yourself out there.  To some, it’s the invisibility cloak that we’ve all dreamed of having since the first Harry Potter book, where others are actually liberated and empowered by such inconspicuousness.  The blessing of anonymity only takes a turn for the worse when combined with the harassment of others.  In that instance, your empowering invisibility now becomes this huge, neon-colored, blinking arrow that points straight to your weak mind and immaturity.

We are ADULTS.  Why, then, do we choose to entertain ourselves in this way?  We are suppressed enough by society without having you open up your secret texting app to spit your words of idiocy using a fake number.  Grow up.  Take my hand and let’s progress together as individuals.  There’s still time if we operate start now.  Any longer and I’m afraid you might not make it out alive which in that case…

*puts on 40 gold neck chains*  I pity the fool.

-Yours Truly

A letter to my “Half-Daddy”

As the young thug that I was, I was almost constantly drowning in a mass of about 2 billion stuffed animals.  As you remember, each of those jewels had their own name, personality, background, and life story.  They took turns accompanying me when we had to venture out into the real world.  When we returned home, I would go about my usual self-entertainment of lining them up, single-file, in a parade that stretched from my room, through the kitchen, around the couch, and ending somewhere on the stairs leading down to the den.  Whenever there was a tornado warning, I secured those suckers in trash bags for easy-grabbing in case we had to take shelter underneath the stairs.

Essentially, these beanie babies were my bros…that is, until you informed me that growing inside each and every one was a sack of SPIDER BABIES, waiting to hatch, burst, or whatever the hell it is that they do.  You told me they come “spewing out from between the seams ANY day now”.

This haunted me for weeks.  Deathly afraid of the inevitable hatch-and-attack of the Charlotte’s offspring, but unwilling to do away with my beloveds, I decided to stash them in one corner of the room and sleep with one eye open.   I, now, know that this was just a real jerk move.  Either that or some kind of subconscious indication to the evil spider babies that were living inside you, threatening to burst out onto your exterior.  I  almost think it may have been the latter which makes sense, considering the fact that up until a couple of years ago, I recognized your existence as the poison of my life.

Yes, we’ve since renewed and repaired that relationship for which I am very grateful, but the spider babies still haunt me.  It makes me wonder what else I have swept under the rug or into the corners of my mind where the spider babies can fester, waiting to drag me down to rot forever in Spider Baby Hell.

Thanks a lot.

-Yours Truly

A Letter to Readers

The other day, a woman strolled in my place of work and struck up a conversation that didn’t end until about 40 minutes after the place had closed.   She told me her life story, her dreams, her accomplishments.  We talked about education, art, and imagination.  We discussed the changes that come with every generation introduced to the world.  Or I should say she talked while kept a good, continuous head-nod going, accompanied by agreeable “mmhmmm”s and eyebrow raises to try and show my participation in the one-sided, two-hour lecture conversation.

As I was frantically searching for a way out listening, I realized that this woman was talking about some real deep, intellectual stuff.  She told me that in order to combat feelings of inadequacy and make something of myself, I need to unleash my creativity — make art, write, start a blog, play an instrument, express myself.

I’ve heard this cliché bull a million times, but for some reason this time it stuck with me.  Minus those artists, musicians, millionaires, etc, a lot of us never think to stop and give ourselves credit.  We can get so sucked into our mediocrity that we, in turn, convince ourselves that we have nothing to offer, nothing worth saying.  This is my effort to combat these feelings that a lot of us hold within ourselves.  This is one of my outlets for creativity and expression through the writing of letters never sent.  I invite you all to make it one of yours too. We all have things to say.  Feel free to comment, respond, or to share your own letters(email me to submit: letterstotheunnamed@gmail.com) Come in, take a look around, make yourself comfortable, have a drink.  Mi casa es su casa.  Enjoy and thank you.

-Yours truly