LightBears

Be a LightBear!!!!!

I’m going to tell you a story. It’s the result of a book I own, with no author that I can credit, entitled “Create a Story.” This story was written in response to the prompt, ‘Write a story about a letter you’re too afraid to send’

I was going through a box of old belongings preparatory to moving to a new home when a tattered envelope seemingly swam to the surface of the box in front of me.   There it sat amidst the random old holiday cards, souvenir matchbooks and dog eared restaurant reviews my foodie husband insisted on saving; it had an air of smugness about it, and at the same time it radiated danger.  I recoiled at its sight as if it were a viper about to attack.  On it were three simple words:

*** DO NOT OPEN ***

 I wanted to comply, I wanted to shred or burn it, or simply pretend to myself that I had not seen it.   But one of my traits is honesty. Another is never to let fear rule me.  And yet another trait is to pick at scabs, compulsively, in a way similar to having to test a “wet paint” sign.  Will the scab still bleed, or has it healed?

My husband died three years ago (no, he was not crushed by the boxes!)  He was a pack rat and had about twenty boxes of ephemera that he would occasionally start to go through, only to become engrossed in an old newspaper that supposedly contained a review of one of his favorite rock stars or a new (now ten years long gone) restaurant he wanted to visit.  

There he would sit, three tottering piles surrounding the box at his feet: items to toss; items too important to discard; and items like old pay stubs, to shred. In the end, almost all would go back in the box, consigned to rejoin the other boxes.  In his life, the tide was always receding, leaving treasures at the high tide mark for him to pore over and bring home to save.  Thus giving birth to new boxes, ad nauseum.

Over the last three years I made headway with the things he left behind.  I was diligent about recycling his clothes and similar items that went to charity.  I even let go of his hiking boots.  And I did, as often as I could focus, roam through the boxes.  People advised me to just toss them; but I knew that in the debris would be an occasional love letter or photo that would mean something to me, and so I persevered.

But now I was paralyzed: DO NOT OPEN. 

I sat for hours contemplating that envelope.  I knew fairly well what it contained and the emotional memories were nearly overwhelming. 

But… 

“I will no longer flinch,” I told myself.  “I’m going to release the memories and let the feelings flood through me…

“and I will emerge victorious.”

And so, I pried it open and began to read.

It said:

“Dear mom and dad.

I want a divorce. 

Ever since I told you I no longer follow your religion, that I believe that the Earth is sacred and I worship the Goddess, that it brings me joy and more inner peace than contemplating your sacrificial lamb, you have treated me with disdain.  

My mother is cold as ice. Dad, you continue to re-tell your Sunday sermons at dinner when we visit.  You even make us hold hands in public around the restaurant table while you say grace, and everyone stares.

You show me no respect. 

I’ve tried so hard for the past five years to reestablish the love, I haven’t stopped being the honorable and well behaved daughter.   

But I’m tired.   I’m tired of mom sneering at my religion.  I’m tired of being shut out of her love.  I’m tired of shredding my emotions and I’m tired of pretending. 

So, no more.  No more phone calls, no more visits, no more fake holidays.  I’m walking away now. 

I will always love you, just the same.”

There. I read it.  Tears are running down my face and my heart hurts. 

My dead husband is no longer here to embrace me and try to soothe my hurt.  And my parents are also dead.  

I am still here.  I have persevered.  I am as strong as I always knew I was.  And yes, my heart still hurts. 

And, to tell the truth, while there’s no blood, there’s a dark red mark under the scab. At least the wet paint sign is dry!! [wry laughter]

But, I’m done.  No more!  Tomorrow, having faced the worst, I’m putting the rest of these g-d boxes out in the trash where they can compost somewhere. 

Perhaps a dandelion or something else will grow in their place some day; I’d like that. 

I believe nothing is wasted in the end. 

Postscript:

This letter never actually existed, in real life.  But the gist of the story is true.  What I wound up doing was sitting in a restaurant with my father and telling him how terribly painful the past 5 years had been, and that if my mother didn’t love me any more because of her religion, then I just wanted out of the family.  I couldn’t keep on going.  The word “frigid” doesn’t even begin to express the depth of soul numbing chill my mother could radiate when she was angry. 

Apparently, my father went home and told my mother at least part of what I said.  And, miraculously, the chill melted away and she became like my mother always used to be – loving, but a bit distant.  Which was the norm for my family of origin.

Why am I telling you this? Why the postscript? So that you will know that, sometimes – depending on the family dynamics – it is possible to use words to build a bridge to walk across.  It takes a lot of courage, and it doesn’t always work, but it’s worth trying. 

In my case, it took me a long, long time to get up the gumption to have that talk with my father, but in the end, I’m very glad I did.