The letter

The letter from Cindy — that infamous letter — still haunts me. It's been more than 22 years since I got that letter, yet I cannot forget it. If there's one thing in my life I could take back, it's throwing away that letter. In all my forgiving, I always get stuck on this. It's so hard to forgive myself for that. But, my retrospective has gifted me with much insight — insight into myself and my actions. You see, there's more to this story.

The narrative was this: A lifetime ago, somehow Cindy heard my family was moving away, so she sent me a goodbye letter. In that letter, in her flawless handwriting, she stated she loved me. I recall feeling rejected by her at some point before that, so I chalked up my throwing away of the letter to that, thinking I was, perhaps, still angry with her. I do recall a conversation we had on the phone and after I hung up, I thought, "That's the last time I'm going to talk to her, isn't it?" Sadness. Not anger. Whatever was said, it seemed final. But, apparently, we hung out during spring break that year (1997), so I'm not sure when that supposedly final conversation took place. The narrative says she broke off our relationship because she was committed to another man (whom she later married). But when she heard I was leaving town, she may have realized this was her last chance for something with me, and that's where the "I love you" comes in (or maybe it was just a goodbye?). Anyway, I threw away that last chance. That was downright shitty of me. But why?

I was leaving town, sure, but when a woman tells you she loves you, you reach out to her. Yes, I was in a new relationship with Kate, the woman I eventually married, but it was a very new relationship. What it looks like is this: Cindy broke off our relationship because she was with someone — so I didn't respond to her letter — because I was with someone. That's how you behave when you're with someone, right? Okay, then why did throwing away her letter haunt me the rest of my life, even as I sit here? There's the conflict.

I used to go to my workplace to make phone calls sometimes, often late at night. I would call Kate or she would call me toll-free that way. Yes, along with handwritten letters, long-distance charges are also a thing of the past. It was expensive to call someone in Ohio, so I'd go down to work and use the free line. We ended up racking up some expensive phone calls along the way; I remember sending her a check at one point. And I remember her calling my house and asking for me once late at night, drunk, and my dad answering, incensed. Talking at work was safer because, apparently, she was a dumbass. Anyway, I digress. 

Here's the part I never mentioned. During one of those phone calls, I got out Cindy's letter and read parts of it to Kate. Why did I do that? I wasn't sure what to make of it or what to do with it. Any decent human being would have screamed at me, "You need to talk to that girl," but Kate told me to throw it away. I literally carried that letter around with me, unable to figure out what to do with it and unsure who to ask. I was dumbfounded, as I had never been in a situation like that. I laid it, open, gently at the top of one of the big trash cans at work, perhaps hoping someone would take pity on it and rescue it. I didn't crumple it in anger and spite or burn it or make a spitball out of it or even try to bury it — it was left there, open, like a question that was never answered. I was never comfortable with my decision to throw it away, as evidenced by years of regret. I cluelessly bumbled what would turn out to be one of the biggest decisions of my life. Yes, this is on me. But, here comes forgiveness and grace and understanding. 

I should have known when Kate told me what to do what kind of person she was. Sure, we all want to be wanted and loved. But we were not serious serious at that point. Any decent human being would have suggested I get in touch with the girl who wrote that letter. Because letters like that come along only once in a lifetime. And who wants to be with someone if they have doubts about what could have been with someone else? Clearly, something should have been said, instead of nothing — a nothing that hung in the air for decades — a nothing that continues to hang over my head until "what could have been" was all I could see.

When I got the letter, I honestly had no clue what to do. I looked for answers, asked for help. The answer was wrong, in retrospect, and I bear the burden of responsibility. I've always been susceptible to being controlled by other people, probably because of my childhood. It's like a defense mechanism. I went passive at that moment and thousands of moments after it. I was manipulated and controlled for years, only gaining a backbone in the last few years of my marriage to Kate. That's not her fault, though; that's on me. I ceded control of that decision and many others. 

Going forward, I have to recognize I am very susceptible to being controlled by people, particularly a significant other. Will it happen again? Probably. There isn't much chance I will change. I guess I need to be with someone with a good heart so it doesn't matter as much. I am, at my heart, incredibly, stupidly naive. I have a good heart, and I want to believe other people have my best interests in mind. They don't. Not always. I should know that by now, but I keep hoping they do. And I have a nasty habit of trusting the wrong people, people who take advantage of me. 

God has dealt with me about how my decisions are important and that they matter, even if they are guided by someone else. Even if I don't make a decision, that is still a decision. This is why, perhaps, I pray so much about my decisions (even little ones). I don't know what to do, and I'm not willing to put my future or my son's future in anyone else's hands but God now. I'm taking back control of my decisions, but with a caveat. I am then giving God control because I don't trust myself. 

That letter wasn't just a letter. It could have been the beginning of something absolutely beautiful. Instead, it is a coulda-been. I'll never know what might have happened, but rest assured I will never again go forward with a significant decision without praying first. I certainly won't trust my future to the whims of a woman again. Time and time again I broke my own heart by choosing what was wrong for me, and often because I was listening to the wrong voice. Is this me trying to pass the buck? Certainly not. This is me taking responsibility. 

There are levels of irony here, and I would be remiss not to mention them. It's ironic Kate and Cindy would come together — face to face — years later. It's ironic it would happen at the tail end of my marriage. It's ironic I would have yet another chance with Cindy — and ironic I would lose her yet again. So, if you're keeping count, she pushed me out of her life, then I pushed her away, and the final time, she pushed me away. That's certainly fair, and somewhat ironic. And probably tragic. Someone should write a book because you can't make this stuff up.

It's clear — letter or no letter — I have feelings for Cindy, and always have. And that may be the only thing I know. Okay, I know one other thing: If I ever get another chance with her, I will not screw it up.

Finally, after about 22.5 years, I feel I have a better perspective of what I did with Cindy's letter. It wasn't right, not by a long shot, but I've forgiven myself and have been allowed to understand why I did what I did, instead of simply judging myself (and harshly). Cindy forgave me for throwing the letter away; in fact, she didn't remember sending it when I asked for her forgiveness. She has a big heart, that girl, and it's clear my life would have been vastly different and better had I answered that letter and cemented our feelings.

I can't go back and change what I've done, but I have certainly learned from it. It's not even a matter of changing my approach to life because I already have. While this post may look like me digging through age-old regrets, it's not. I feel I can put it to rest now. I understand why I did it. While I'm not absolving myself of responsibility, I am letting myself go free — finally. It's not okay what I did, but it's okay to move on. 

I thank God for forgiveness and grace. And for a second chance with the girl I love  — and have probably always loved — which I now think of as a brush with an angel. I would be truly, astronomically, undeservedly lucky if I get a third chance, just as I was to get a second chance. 

I won't hold my breath, but, needless to say, should she write me another letter, I will answer it.