Unsent Letters

There are few greater barriers to closure than words left unspoken. Life has a way of taking the ones who mean the most to us at unexpected times and, human nature being the way it is, too many of us fail to fully express how we feel before it’s too late.

Below, are letters that I’ve written to two people. The effect that one of the recipients had on my life and worldview is fairly obvious, while the other’s mark on my life is only fully known to the people closest to me.

My intent is not that the recipients read these, although, only one of them would be able to. It is not to irresponsibly put my own one-sided account of events into the ether without their input; these pieces are far too short for me to do that anyway. I wrote these simply for the clarity they brought.

These words, particularly those to my first love, were inspired by the beautiful woman whom I hope to be able to spend the rest of my life with. Meiya; a piece of you is in every word I write. The pain I describe here, while harrowing, was incredibly formative. It informed many of my later decisions. It’s the reason why I told you that I loved you so early on in our relationship. Not because I wanted or expected you to say them back to me – less than a month into our relationship – but because that was I how I felt. It hurt to hold the words in, and I knew that even if you left me because it was too soon, it would be easier to express myself than to suppress it. Thank you for inspiring me every day.

---

To an Ex-Girlfriend

When I remember how quickly you became my everything, I still can’t believe it. Even six years on. It all feels like a dream, but the impact it had is undeniable. You were all I thought about: a refuge from my home life, and the only bright spot in an otherwise bleak existence.

Melodramatic?

Probably.

True?

Definitely.

But, when I choked on the words that would have shown you what it all meant, you just stared.

And waited.

More than anything, I wanted to say them, but I physically couldn’t. Watching my parents’ marriage implode made me incapable of doing so. Instead of asking what was wrong, or saying the words I know you felt too, you left.

And you took a part of me with you.

Looking back, I don’t know how I should think of you. How permanently should you be etched into my memory? You were my first, after all.

Now that I think about it, I want to say, “Thank you.” That ordeal taught me to say what I feel, no matter what. Because of your inability to understand, I found someone better.

---

To My Father

You used to talk about getting your hair cut when you were a kid. Just you and your twin brother. Out on the front porch with your father.

And an electric trimmer locked onto the shortest setting.

You’d cry in protest every time, but he’d still go through with it.

Damn near put you two in headlocks doing it. Laughing all the while.

And I thought our relationship was fucked up.

It makes sense now; your obsession with appearance. Why you always had to have the most expensive clothes. Hickey Freeman shirts, Armani suits, Ferragamo loafers. I only know the brand names because of how often you’d casually drop them into everyday conversation. It annoyed the hell out of me, but I honestly think some of it rubbed off.

I know I’m a little vain myself.

Okay, more than a little. I enjoy the way I look in a suit a little too much, although I’d never break the bank to buy one.

Funny. All that work you put into your appearance and now you’re just – gone. And that toxic asshole you had for a father is still alive in Coventry, Connecticut.

And I only know that from my weekly reading of the obituaries.

---

No matter how regrettable our past may be, it’s important to realize and accept the effect that it has on who we are as individuals. My father and I spent more time fighting than we did getting along, yet I see some of him in me when I reflect on who I really am as a man. Were I to resist the more innate traits that I received from him, I’d risk doing far more harm than good to my own mental health. I wouldn’t be able to love or even like myself if I did that. Dysfunctional father does not equal a dysfunctional me. Likewise, the most painful romantic experience I’ve been through does not mean that my entire love life afterward will be tainted by a sense of foreboding. Past mistakes can and should inform who we are, but they should not be allowed to define us.

~Sean Donnelly

Self-Eulogy

Looking in the mirror is uncomfortable in the best of times. In some instances, it can be almost painful. People spurn those who exhibit the traits they find most unpleasant in themselves. A father will often land hardest on the son who most resembles him. Close self-examination, or the avoidance of it, is responsible for more pain than most would like to acknowledge. But, knowing oneself is important, especially when trying to find direction.

I’ve found that the most effective exercise for getting to the core of who you are is to imagine that, in short, this is it. If your existence as you knew it was over today, what words would be carved into your headstone? If you could write your own eulogy, what would you have to say about your time here? To say this exercise isn’t easy is a massive understatement. It’s not supposed to be.

The overwhelming majority of people would have regrets if faced with the end. It’s a rare individual who doesn’t, even after a long, mostly happy life. Imagine my unease at taking stock of things in my early twenties. Of course, one’s state of mind has a huge effect on how the exercise goes. My most scathing indictments of my own character and place in life at the moment are…unpleasant to look at. Objectivity is important here.

My self-assessment has very little to do with the people closest to me. I’m incredibly fortunate in that regard. My girlfriend of three years is one of the strongest people I know, and I’m lucky enough to call her my best friend. She’s the only one that I’ve ever been able to fully open up to. My mother has given me everything that she’s been able to, and more. My coach and surrogate father is the reason that I’ve been able to grow from a scared kid into a man. I think the word “friend” is overused nowadays, but I think I’ve been blessed with more than my fair share of true friends. I won’t name any names, but when they read this, they’ll know that I’m talking about them here. I owe everyone I’ve listed here more than I could possibly quantify or pay back.

This is about me. I know myself well enough to realize how restless I can be. Therefore, I may never be satisfied with my accomplishments. There will always be another book to write. Another fight to be won. When I’m too old to step through the ropes myself, there will always be another boxer to train. Life hasn’t been easy for me, so enduring some form of struggle day in and day out has become comforting in its familiarity.

I’m a writer and a fighter. Life wouldn’t feel complete for me without these pursuits.

My harshest assessment of myself is this; I’m half-assing it. Were this my last day, I know I wouldn’t be happy with the last words of remembrance spoken at my service. With the ability I have in certain areas, I should be much further ahead of where I am now. I know that many writers don’t publish their first book until middle or old age. And I know of a number of fighters who found combat sports later than I did, yet still became world champions. However, I’ve discovered my talents at a young age. I should be doing far more with them. I’m a writer who doesn’t write enough and a fighter who doesn’t fight enough.  Sparring and blogging don’t count. Period. Even in the fights that I’ve won, I’ve shown maybe 40% of my ability, and that was only in spots. And my output, even in my blogs, hasn’t been nearly high enough.

I need to fight more often because I know that I’m a champion.

I need to work on finishing my memoir and novel, because I know that a great number of people could benefit from reading them.

I owe those things to myself.

At best, I think I’ve already had an impact. However small, it’s still something that I should be proud of. Several people have reached out to me through Instagram, WordPress, and Facebook to tell me that my writing has had an impact in their lives. From close friends to people who decided to reconnect after reading and liking the message my words convey, to those I’ve never met and are only aware of me through my pieces published online. I’ll admit, I’ve saved all of those messages. I read them when I’m feeling hopeless; when I’m feeling that no publisher will touch my manuscripts. They’ve been invaluable. They’re the reason why I’m feeling driven to write this, when I could, and should, be sleeping.

Likewise, a number of my teammates and those close to me have gone out of their way to tell me that it’s been inspiring to watch how hard I work. It’s a compliment that I’m never prepared to hear. I know that, compared to almost all other fighters, my dedication and work ethic are a bit freakish. I just don’t ever consider that others take notice. It’s just something I do because I love to do it. Not just fighting. I find the preparation to do so cleansing; somewhere on the spectrum between redemptive and exhilarating.

Enough about accomplishments and aspirations. I think a far more telling aspect of a person’s life is the impression they leave on those closest to them. That said, I’ve learned some hard lessons from not giving enough of myself to both friends and family. Last year, when something told me to reach out to an old high school friend, I suppressed the urge. A month later, he took his own life. It wouldn’t have made a difference. When someone has made up their mind to end things, they’re going to do it. Maybe it would’ve been a small comfort to him.

My paternal grandmother who was, for all intents and purposes, a third parent to me throughout my childhood, passed away in August 2013. Due to the toxic and, at that point, the nonexistent relationship I had with my father, I hadn’t spoken to her in over eight months. Because of the scene I knew he would cause at the funeral service, I elected not to attend. I don’t know that I’ll ever shake the regret from that decision. I loved my father, even then. However, he was both a physically and mentally weak individual. I allowed him to project that onto me, and my fear of what might happen at the funeral overrode my ability to dictate my own course of events. The woman who, at times, was my only stable parental figure deserved my attendance.

 

Rosary beads from my grandmother’s funeral. 

 

Because of these occurrences, I’ve made a far more concerted effort to tell those closest to me exactly how important they are in my life. I’ve told many of them that I’d be there for them, no matter the circumstances, and I’d like to think that it’s made a difference.

The mind is everything, and that is where my problems reside. Instead of being hesitant to take fights, I need to jump in with both feet. I have all the ability in the world; I need to just turn my brain off sometimes and say “yes” to the opportunities in front of me. And, instead of waiting for “inspiration” to strike, and write more often. Sure, the pieces that I do write when I’m truly inspired are great. However, the time in between such pieces is far too great. Napoleon once said that “quantity has a quality all its own.” He was speaking of military strategy of course, but it’s applicable elsewhere. Journaling more often would help; similarly, to when I get a second wind in a fight, I may get a burst of creativity by writing and working through my intellectually flatter moments.

So, I think that, were I to write my own eulogy today, I would not be satisfied with my list of accomplishments or accolades. I know that funerals are much more about emotional closure for close family and friends, but in doing this, I’m taking stock of everything. The people who intimately know me, I think, would say that I’ve made a significant impact in their lives. I can always give more for them, and can always be more present, but I think I’m on the right track on that front.

Again, I haven’t written enough, and I haven’t fought often enough. At least I know how to correct this. I know I’ll never be satisfied with what I’ve done on both fronts, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be happy. Quite the opposite, in fact. In my experience, one of the greatest sources of happiness is having a definite purpose. I’ll always have another opponent to fight, and another book to write. I find comfort in this realization. I’m already making a difference and am fortunate to have done so. It’s just a small taste of things to come.

~Sean Donnelly