Another letter to another important person

I have a friend – my best friend, to be specific. One of many best friends, because I am lucky, though she holds the distinction of being my best friend for the longest period of time. I have a friend who is very different from me, though very much the same in some ways. Some times I think that if we hadn’t met at such a young age, or if we lived in the same city, or if we saw each other in any circumstances other than those we have to laboriously manufacture for ourselves, we wouldn’t be friends at all. And then I’m grateful that those things define the parameters of our friendship, because I like her so very much. I’m writing this because I know she’ll see it eventually and I know she’s about to go do a very hard thing. And I might alienate some of the people in her life because they are telling her very different things, but she needs to hear them again and again until they either stop being pertinent or she has them committed to memory.

Ignore your parents. I don’t mean always. Don’t ignore their advice about not racking up to much credit card debt, or which car to buy. Don’t ignore your dad’s lectures on saving for the future, because one day you’ll be his age, too. Don’t ignore what your mom says about the men in your life because she can see their motivations with a clarity you can’t. But do ignore their worry. Ignore their terror you won’t be “more successful” than them. You get to define your success, not them. They did an excellent thing, setting you up for the life you’re about to lead, but none of that means anything if you let them hang it like an anchor around your neck. I know they mean well and they just want what’s best for you. But if you don’t figure that out on your own, you’re going to resent them. They’ll be mad because they’ll insist they know what’s best, but tell them now you’d rather give them the momentary satisfaction of an “I told you so” than plague yourself with a “what if” for the rest of your life. Let them worry. But don’t let them worry you into inaction.

Ask for help. You are so very proud, and I would fix all your problems every time I get a panicked voicemail if I could. But I don’t have that kind of power, and I think that’s why you come running to me first. I don’t know why you think this, but asking for help isn’t a sign of weakness, it’s a sign of trust. It means you trust someone enough to let them see you for what you really are, which is human. You’re beautiful even when you’re so panicked that you’re calling me and texting me at the same time. You talk with a laugh in your voice, and even when you’re on the verge of tears, I can still hear it there. Your whole body vibrates when you talk about anything, including impending homelessness and failing grades, that makes it seem like you’re so alive that you’re going to jump into a higher level of humanity at any second now. Let people other than me see this. The great thing about being beautiful – and I don’t mean just physically – is that you are in the middle of a crowd of people who would love it if you crowd sourced some of your problems. I promise that for every problem you have, someone around you has the answer. Sometimes it’ll be you, and sometimes it won’t. But they won’t know to give it to you unless you let them see you need it. And they’re scared, too. They’re scared that if they offer help when you don’t need it, they’ll look stupid. So it’s up to you. No one is going to hand you anything… until you ask for it.

Choose every morning what kind of life you want. Make daily the choices that will point you in that direction. If you don’t make a conscious decision to be always who you want to be, the path of least resistance will pull you into someone you don’t like. Probably not someone you hate, but is that a risk you’re willing to take? Be with who makes you happy, do what makes you smile, and most of all, make sure that if you had to confront yourself in the past, you could honestly tell yourself you’ve improved. But you’re stubborn, and I know that you’ll think this means making the things you want to happen, happen. That’s not true, either. The only thing we can control is our reaction. To anything. You cannot force your way into the school or job you want, you cannot force someone to love you, you really cannot force much of anything. Certainly you can pursue these things, and you should, because inaction is a reaction too. But please, carry with you the clarity to know when something isn’t your fault. Continually act and react like the person you want to be, and through that habit, make it a reality.

I know I don’t have the answers. In fact, five years from now I’m sure we’ll laugh at this because it’ll be hilarious how much I thought I knew. But right now, we’re young enough not to know better, so it’ll suffice. And in five years I’ll write you a new list of things I want you to remember as you start the next hard thing. Finally, a couple more things you already know, but it won’t hurt to hear again. I love you in that totally lame way that inspires needlepoint platitudes. You can do anything, and the only thing stopping you is your own fear. You are surrounded by people who feel the exact same way, even if they don’t say it or say it as nicely. You look good in red lipstick. I love the sound of your laugh, especially when you snort. Stop hunching, you’re tall and you just have to deal with it. And when all else fails, hug the buffalo. 

Denver 5/7

I really ought to be reading a book. Specifically, I need to be reading the first hundred pages of Manuel Castell’s book Networks of Outrage and Hope. I’ve finished and turned in my thesis, so for the next four weeks, my focus needs to be on securing A-s in two of my three classes so as not to jeopardize the summa cum laude distinction I’ve been chasing somewhat aggressively for a year and a half now. But instead I’m sitting on the porch of my apartment which I share with my best friend while a thunderstorm begins what it’s been threatening to do for most of the afternoon. Namely, drizzle a bit, make a great deal of noise, and then go on its merry way until tomorrow afternoon when we’ll be accosted by another storm that’ll make more noise than actual fuss. Even though my lap top screen is suffering the occasional speckle of moisture under our awning and the street is already black instead of the normal muted grey, I can already see the edge of the clouds off at the horizon, pinching the setting sun between themselves and the mountains. Of course, having grown up here and lived here for all but 12 months of my life (9 in Spokane, 3 in Prague), I know that what I’m seeing isn’t the mountains, but rather the foothills. I can see the mountains from my balcony on a clear day, but the clouds being what they are and the sun being where it is, only the foothills are in sight.

And while I’m sitting here, four pages into what is going to be a very dull night, I’m waxing pensive. As I do, when I’m procrastinating something. Specifically my decision to move after I go abroad. It’s a decision I made a while ago, and it’s gotten quite a bit of couch time during my various forms of formal and informal therapy, but I haven’t really ever sat down and written much about it. I don’t know why that is, though that’s another subject to bring up next time I have a table full of friends drinking my tea and telling me exactly why I need to stop worrying. I want to talk about it now, I think, because I’ve finally made up my mind about it.

We might as well start at the beginning. I don’t know if you could say I lived in Prague because I didn’t really do any of the things that really make up the mundane and simultaneously frightening things that constitute being an independent adult, like paying rent, or getting a job, or really dealing with the consequences of any of my actions. I don’t want to invalidate the experience at all, but the Cydney who spent time there was not the Cydney who’d spent 21 years prior trying to become an adult. It was definitely a childish experience, and I don’t mean with any of the negative connotations. But I want to emphasize that because it basically rebooted my system far back enough that I was able to take a good hard look at who I was, and which changes I really wanted to make. I think I’m still kind of doing that, even now. But I decided at the end of my first month there that instead of getting a real job, I would come back and teach English. How much of that was influenced by having a local paramour is a matter of debate. On the surface, at least, the decision survived two break-ups while there, and a third once home.

During the month of January, returning to Prague was something of a Holy Grail/Sorcerer’s Stone panacea I was grasping towards to keep the paramour’s attention. “Just six months, baby, it’s not that bad.” I could say all sorts of things about him and why the relationship faded almost the instant I left the country, but I’ll leave that for a different discussion. Suffice to say, it didn’t work, and most of February I put the decision on the back burner, explaining “That’s hardly a choice I can make now. I’ll wait till I’ve calmed down and my head’s cleared.” March it felt like that had mostly happened, and halfway through the month I sent in a deposit to secure my place at a language school in Prague to get my TEFL after graduation. It didn’t feel like a decision, though. I guess part of that is how I mentally conceptualize decisions. A decision is something I put a lot of thought into, and takes will power, and if I’ve made the right one, I’ll be excited about it. This didn’t feel like that. It felt like I’d taken the easiest option, the one offered to me with the fewest obstacles and the least amount of opposition from anyone around me. And as anyone close to me will tell you, if someone tells me which decision I ought to make, I will 9 times out of 10 take the opposite choice. I just don’t like being told what to do. And I wasn’t excited.

Most of April I spent trying – and failing – not to think about it. How unsure I was that this was the right call. And terror that I might be making it for the wrong reasons. My mother is still convinced that I’m returning to Prague in an attempt to recapture something that’s gone. She specifically means the relationship. I think it’s more than that. Something happened in Prague, that system reboot I mentioned, and 3.5 months wasn’t enough time for it to finish. I’ve had a sensation (that’s mostly gone by now) that something started in Prague that was put on hold when I got home, and I needed to restart it, let it finish. Maybe the feeling’s gone because the statute of limitations has worn out and I’ve lost my momentum. Maybe I accidentally finished it here. But I know I can’t recreate the experience the first time around, for a handful of reasons. The two best friends I met there won’t be returning, they’ll be finishing school, so there won’t be long walks discussing everything from porn to politics or tea in a basement apartment at the top of Wenceslas. I’ll have to get a job, and deal with those terrifying little adult things like rent and taxes, and the first time I get sick, no one’s going to take me to the doctor and then show up with soup and antibiotics. But most importantly, I’ve finally reached the point where my bluster about not wanting anything to do with the former paramour has stopped being bluster. It was a very important step for me, but I realized that instead of “I want you in my life and can’t have you,” it’s become “I can have you in my life, and don’t want you.” And that’s big for me. It means any residual control he had over my thought process and decision making is gone. It’s relieving.

But now, the month of May, two months before I go, one month before I graduate, I’m finding a new thing needs to be grappled with. All the reasons I had for going – relationship, it’s easy, finishing something, reclamation – are all sounding hollow. I’ve been accused of ruling by committee, not trusting myself enough to make my own decisions. I choose to look at the panicked mass texts I send out to the (astoundingly large) circle of friends who mostly act as bar stool therapists as crowd sourcing. Everyone always comes back with a different iteration of the same answer. “You can do it because______” Someone observed, though, that my terror at the little things really just is me shooting holes in my own boat before it leaves harbor. And I think she’s right.

So after long deliberation, I have come up with this. I am going to write it on the inside of my eyelids if I have to, so I remember this moment sitting on my porch in the rain, which is profoundly reminiscent of the first time I sat down and wrote a blog post in Prague. I described myself then as a “young lady of mostly sound mind and healing heart in a foreign city.” Now, I think I’m a young lady of debatable sanity, healed heart, and tenacious soul about to leave on a grand adventure. I’m leaving the city where I am most comfortable, safest, with easy access to a miraculously large group of infinitely loving people who care about my well being to go have an adventure whose only goal will be to see how far I get. That’s all. I’m going to go have an adventure and see how far I get. I can’t fail with that goal, so it’s not scary any more. And for the first time since I sent my deposit in, I am genuinely excited.

So very excited.