I have a pit in my stomach just from writing that title. It's funny isn't it? The thing you brush off as being "no big deal" becomes a much bigger deal when you allow yourself time to think about it. I have a feeling this blog will take me a while to write because I'll only be able to do it in fits and bursts. The discomfort is real.
When I was in 4th grade (and I'm having trouble remembering if it was the summer before or after), I received a hate letter in the mail. The shock of it was perhaps the worst thing. I remember getting so excited about getting something in the mail, and thinking it was from a friend I had in Maryland (I had lived there preschool-2nd grade). When I opened the letter, I remember I saw inside a typed letter (typewriter!), with the words "I hate you" written inside. My heart and soul deflated. It was a page of words, but all I can remember is that the person didn't like me, called my Mom a nerd (which in retrospect is HILARIOUS), and left me feeling absolutely and completely drained of joy. It was, of course, anonymous.
There are several books and movies that focus on the "loss of innocence" trope. So much so that we may even miss the real, more subtle thing in our own lives. In literature and movies, they are usually drastic scenarios, sort of traumatizing to exploit the feeling that we all have felt when we find out that the world is perhaps not a magical place. In real life, it's often a small thing that simply breaks the spell. The beautiful iridescent bubble pops, and we see how fragile it all was. Some people never have a chance at innocence, they know from day one that things aren't fair and adults aren't actually in complete control and children can be cruel.
But I grew up in a world of magic. Rainbow bubbles were daily floating above my head. I was lost in my own imagination, singing songs, riding my bike, playing outside for as long as I wanted to. I knew bad things happened, I knew adults cried, but everything always worked out in the end. No one had ever hated me. No one had ever told me I couldn't accomplish something. I didn't know about mean girls or abusive boys. I was innocent. I was blissfully unaware of the human need to protect ourselves. What was there to protect against? My parents had everything under control and I was safe and loved.
Then that letter came. First was the shock that someone hated me. I didn't hate anyone. I didn't know how someone could hate me when I was pretty sure I hadn't done anything terrible. But I didn't know who it was. That was the second challenge: the mystery. I had no way of confronting this person. No way to clear my name or ask for forgiveness. No way to make things right. To convince them that I wasn't actually so terrible, and maybe if they gave me a chance, they would like me. Then came the guessing. Who was it? Was it a cruel joke by someone I didn't know? This seemed impossible as the contents of the letter were too personal and specific to be by someone oblivious to my life. Did I have a friend who actually hated me but pretended to be my friend? That was the most frightening of all possibilities.
The mystery was eventually solved, but in the same way that most childhood mysteries are. By the process of elimination and by the silence of those who would have rushed to the defense, we figured out who the mystery writer was. I was taught to let it go, that people say things they don't mean. Or that if they meant it- I didn't need to bother with an opinion I shouldn't care about. In fact, I had so "let it go" that I am connected to this person on social media today - and we have not once mentioned the letter. I never actually asked this person. Because how do you ask someone in their 30s- "did you write me a hate letter when you were 10?" It seems ridiculous, and makes the whole thing bigger than you want it to be.
But it was big. Not particularly because of the person or the words, but because of what it cracked open in me. Doubt. Self-awareness that people might not like me. The simple idea that someone could pretend to like me but actually hate me was the biggest bubble pop I could imagine. Didn't everyone say what they meant? I had not developed the tools for dealing with lying, rejection and hate, so I did what many of us do: I retreated behind a giant wall.
That wall was not a complete construction that year. And that letter was not the only catalyst for building it. But that was my loss of innocence. That was when I realized that I could be touched by this pain I had seen everywhere but here. I could unwittingly be the focus of someone's hate and malice. So I started to build the wall. Some years I built entire sections, some years only a few bricks. Some years I realized the need for a gate, some years I added barbed wire and electricity.
I built the wall brick by brick with every word I chose not to say, for fear of judgment. A brick was placed with every outfit that I chose out of my desire to blend in, not stand out. T-shirt and Jeans was my uniform. I built the wall by choosing to look out the window on the bus rather than chat with my neighbors.
I built that wall by making sure that I didn't get close enough to anyone that I would likely disappoint, and by limiting the amount of friendships I had in order to limit the responsibility and amount of pain I could endure if it went south. I built the wall by being much more strict about who I let in, I needed to trust them and believe that they loved me.
I built gates by writing honestly. I built windows and lowered the height by traveling and talking to strangers. I demolished sections by falling in love and having children. I chiseled away at corners with therapy and honest conversation.
I continue to build that wall by lowering expectations of what people should expect from me. What started as a gentle boundary-setting for myself turned into a cover for not wanting to risk disappointing anyone. I set the expectations drastically low. I tell you everything that I cannot and will not do. I confront you with my failures and short-falls before you get a chance to point them out. When I do something good- it's a pleasant surprise for all of us.
When we lose our innocence (if we ever had it), we lose the idea that we are safe. We gain the idea that we need to protect ourselves. And our entire lives become a battle between the need to protect ourselves and the need to connect.
I don't know what to make of our vulnerability. It seems ridiculous that the words of a 10 year old would have lasting impact on me, now in my mid-thirties. I am actually OK, and have survived and felt worse in my life. I don't know what I stand to learn from this memory or the incremental wall building and demolition from there. I want to be more vulnerable, but I'm still scared and I still get hurt. It seems as soon as I let "my guard down" someone sweeps in for a stab.
How do you live life joyful and connected, without all the pain? I don't yet have the bravery yet to let it all in. I still need my guard. I think most of us do. I used to think wisdom was the ability to not care about the things that hurt- to let it roll off your back. I don't think so anymore. I think wisdom is to care about it all- and somehow survive and have joy. I am not there yet. Maybe this year I'll carve out some more windows. It's a start.
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