Dear Mitchell,
It’s been nearly fourteen years since I’ve seen you. That’s a long time. And we still have some unresolved business that I’d like to discuss. First, I want you to read an excerpt from this journal entry I wrote a few months ago.
“Mitchell was my first kiss, at Pizza hut, after the Parade of Lights that preluded the Christmas season, over warm soup and Vincent goading us on. All I can remember was the aftermath; “Ugh, I can’t believe I did that! Gross! I hate myself, I hate myself, I hate myself for doing that.†Mitchell was the one I was closest to [of my group of preschool friends], against all odds. Although he was bossy and self centered, traits I thought I avoided in friends to come, I worshiped him. If you want to be technical about it, he was my first crush, although my emotional awareness had not matured enough to understand it.
But then he moved away. At first, I tried writing him letters. His parents had sent us his new address in Minnesota (“Soda! He lives in a place called Soda!â€), so I wrote him several. To my great disappointment, I only got one back, near Christmas that same year. It mentioned something about wanting a bike for a gift, but that’s all I can remember.
When the next school year started, his parents sent us his school pictures, which, now that I think about it, they still do. By this point, I was sleeping in my brother’s room, on the top bunk of his bunk bed. To be honest, I’m not really sure why I did this, seeing as I had a perfectly good room and bed of my own, but this is not relevant. When we received the picture, probably an inch by and inch and a half, my parents smiled at it and then handed it off to me. So I taped that tiny picture up on the wall next to my bunk bed, and every night, I prayed to God that he would come back. Even a visit would have been fine, I reasoned. I would close my eyes, lace my fingers together, and plead with my heavenly father to bring my friend back.
I haven’t seen Mitchell since the day he moved away.”
You were the first person to break my heart, I think. Not so much by way of romance, because what kind of five year old gets her heart romantically broken? No, you were the first friend to break my heart.
It really hurt that you didn’t at least try to keep up correspondence. Sure, we were five and it wouldn’t have lasted long, but you could have made an effort. My consistent string of nighttime prayers can attest to how much you, at the time, meant to me.
But now, years later, I realize that my reaction was unnecessary. From a young age I had trouble moving on from upsetting events, and maybe if I’d dealt with your leaving better I wouldn’t have all these PTSD-esque emotional issues. I should have just accepted the fact that you were gone, but I couldn’t.
So I’m writing you today to set you free from the confines of my mind. My preschool crush has all but disintegrated over the years, but the pain of your departure subconsciously haunts me still. So I’m letting you go. I’m letting go of the little bit of that painful memory I still harbor.
Goodbye,
Bri
