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

Dear Boxing,

You’ve given me far more than I ever could have imagined. When I first stepped into a gym on that winter day in early 2012, I had no idea what I was really getting into. I had always wanted to try, but never got around to it. My family never had the spare money. Having the power, heat, or water shut off were regular occurrences, and I can remember many times when there wasn’t enough food around for the next meal. You weren’t a priority, and for a long time, I totally forgot about my desire to step into the ring.

All of that lit a fire in me, though. I was already withdrawn, and a bit of an oddball, which invited criticism from many of my peers. It did little to help my already-quick temper. I struggled in my interactions with others, aside from a couple of friends that I was lucky to have. For the most part, I emulated what I saw at home, which was to respond to most situations with anger. I really didn’t know any better. I wanted so desperately to learn to fight. I was aggressive and hyper-competitive in everything I did, so it seemed fitting.

My parents always had me enrolled in baseball – just the town rec league. I grew to love it, but never felt like I was totally fulfilled by it. I became good enough in my teens to make it onto a few all-star teams, but my head was almost always elsewhere. One of the enduring pleasant memories of my early childhood was listening to my dad talk about the golden age of heavyweight boxers in the 1960’s and 1970’s. As difficult as it was for us to get along, we could always talk about boxing. The way he described the epic rivalries between Muhammad Ali, Joe Frazier, George Foreman, Sonny Liston, and Kenny Norton was so captivating. Those men seemed like gods to me, and all I wanted was to follow in what they had accomplished. Or, at the very least, take part in the sport.

But, you were put on the back burner again when my parents split up. I forgot about my desire to fight for a time, even though the fire inside me remained. From ages thirteen to sixteen, I lapsed into depression, which I’ve been dealing with ever since. My mom and dad appeared so intent on hurting each other throughout their lengthy divorce settlement and child support disputes, that I began to feel even more alienated than I already was.

I smoked and drank too much in high school. Mostly to minimize the emotional strain on myself. I had no way to channel all the dark shit that was floating around in my head on even my best days. During that time, the couple fights I got into were – scary. If nothing else, I learned that I genuinely enjoyed dealing out physical punishment. That used to frighten me.

My life changed one day in the middle of my senior year of high school. It happened in British Lit. We were finishing up a unit on the ‘Carpe Diem Poets,’ which included an in-class viewing of Dead Poets’ Society. At the end of the film, Mr. St. George gave us all an assignment; “Go out and seize the day by doing something that you’ve always wanted to do, but never had the time or courage to.”

Everyone in class started talking to each other about what he (it was an all boys’ high school) would do to complete the assignment. I heard everything from getting an ear pieced, to taking a day-trip to New York. For some reason, you resurfaced in my head. The more I thought about you, the more I became totally hooked on the idea that I would find a trainer and at least try boxing. I just didn’t want there to be any regret when I look back on my life in twenty or thirty years. I had to do this for my own peace of mind.

So, I found a local gym, and booked a one-hour session with a trainer there. It was just going to be a standard mitt workout with some teaching of basic fundamentals, but it was more than I had done in a formal setting before. As soon as I had my wraps and gloves on, I knew it felt right. The trainer put on his body shield and focus mitts, and put me through my paces. I was sweating buckets within a few minutes, but it was already the most rewarding thing I had done. After showing me where to place my feet when punching, the trainer called out the first combination: one-two, left hook to the body, with a cross upstairs to finish. Immediately, he backed up and said, “Jesus, you hit hard.” All I could do was smile and shrug.

That, and my first sparring session a week later, had me totally hooked. Mike Tyson said it best; “It was love at first fight.”

I have no idea where I’d be without you. I wouldn’t have Meiya, Coach Rocky, or so many of my friends; Hector, Alfred, Allen, Sacha, Cara, Sam, Chris, Calvin, Anthony, Mike, and too many more to name. I wouldn’t have progressed enough in school to know that my other true calling is to be a writer. I don’t know how I would have gotten past my father’s suicide without you. Ultimately, I’m the one that had to persevere through some very public and devastating losses, but still. Saying that you’ve given me everything is not an overstatement.

Relief. If you’ve never fought, it’s tough to capture the feeling of getting through a hard, ten-round sparring session.

I love everything about you – the early mornings, running in sub-zero temperatures, hitting the heavy bag until I can’t lift my arms, and the headaches after a hard sparring session. Even the losses…I’ve learned far more from my losses in the ring than I have from my successes anywhere else.

You made it possible for me to believe in myself, even when I’ve had to go home and cry in frustration after taking a tough loss or a beating in sparring.

You’ve allowed me to dream. For most of my childhood, I was only focused on survival. I couldn’t consider anything that wasn’t directly in front of me.

You’ve broken my heart before, and I know you will again, but I’ll always come back to you. I know I have what it takes to be a champion. However, even without the physical and mental gifts that I’m so lucky to have, I don’t think I could possibly give you up.

I am a fighter.

I always have been, and I always will be.

~Sean Donnelly

Growing pains. It’s tough to learn in this sport if you haven’t been beaten up at least a few times.

Meaning

12/1/17

Midnight. I’m lying on my side, facing the wall to the right of my bed, unable to sleep.

A frenzied knocking at the door of the apartment directly below mine…accompanied by a single, hurried voice. I can’t make out the words. The door opens and, for a second, all goes silent. A few, loud bangs: pop…pop-pop. I feel a sudden mule-kick to the center of my chest. All the air rushes out of my lungs, and I hear the fourth resounding bang almost simultaneously. Searing pain.

A hole in the floor.

Gunshots.

My undershirt sticks to my chest as the blood spreads from the wound. Eyes wide, I draw breath but choke on the attempt. My lungs won’t take any air.

I’m drowning.

My vision is receding. And the ever-shrinking center is beginning to blur.

Fuck, I can’t feel my arms. My legs…

The already-dark room is fading away, and I’m sinking.

I strive for breath one last time before I stop struggling; the velvety blackness is so welcoming now. It beckons, and I fall further from consciousness. Pulling – pulling me ever faster away.

I’m unaware of who I am and who I was. I can feel myself unraveling. Into…

Nothing.

---

The countless eons after my passing will elapse just as those before my birth did: in an eyeblink, and without my awareness of them having gone by.

People say that life is short, but it’s the longest – and only – thing we know. Even if it’s only for an instant. Cosmically speaking, that’s all it is anyway.

Forty-six billion light-years in all directions, and that’s just what we can see. It’s an unimaginably vast distance, yet we’re limited to our tiny blue-green ball. A beautiful world, but incredibly tiny in the grand scheme of things. All that we do, and all that we are, at least for now, begins and ends here, on our speck of cosmic dust. Cliché or not, the vastness of it all takes my breath away.

So, where should I assign meaning? If I were still a religious individual, this might be far easier question to answer or otherwise explain away.

I don’t like easy. Besides, the fifteen years of Catholic school were about ten years too many for me to be fully indoctrinated. After a certain amount of Bible study, the hypocrisy in many of the passages became too glaring to avoid, at least for me. Since I was raised in Christianity, I always equated the answer to that all-encompassing question with god, which prompted me to research other religions.

I found many similar inconsistencies. The sacred texts that claim to be the product of divine inspiration are littered with our ancestors’ fingerprints. This is not to say that god doesn’t exist. I don’t know that we could comprehend it, if it did.

No one really knows. From the most devout imam, rabbi, or priest, to the celebrant of any other religion I could name, no one knows. Faith, profound as it may be, does not equal knowledge.

So, again, where should I assign meaning? The answer I keep coming back to seems simple enough; love and happiness.

No matter how bad things may get, the majority of us, no matter how unfortunate, can say that this is better than the alternative: non-existence. So, it serves to just be grateful for the opportunity to exist, even if it’s only for a little while.

The ‘power of one’ is a concept that has always resonated with me. One individual can change a family. One family can change a town. One town can change a nation. One nation can change the world. So, I think being kind in our day-to-day interactions does make a difference over time. As cynical of human nature as I am, I’d like to think that many, if not most, people are basically good, with a few bad tendencies. Not the other way around. That said, I think the majority of us would respond to kindness by paying it forward.

Love thyself and thy neighbor…sounds like something I heard in school a couple times.

It’s the best kind of influence we can hope to have, individually.

All that exists doesn’t do so for our sake. We’re a product of existence, not the reason for it. We’re all stuck together on this infinitesimally small piece of existence, so I think at least making an attempt to ease the collective burden on us all goes a long way.

---

A frenzied knocking at the door of the apartment directly below mine…accompanied by a single, hurried voice. I can’t make out the words. The door opens and, for a second, all goes silent. The occupant answers with what sounds like a cheerful greeting and welcomes their visitor inside. The door closes.

I exhale and roll onto my back. While staring at the ceiling, I try to imagine the night sky and stars beyond it.

~Sean Donnelly

All That We Are

This may be the last memoir chapter I share publicly for a little while. Like all of the ones I’ve posted here and the two I put on my other blog, Puncher’s Chance, this one is intensely personal. It deals with my own struggle with depression which, again, is a growing problem in society at large, and must be spoken of openly. Sweeping it under the rug and treating it like some disease that you’ll catch if you so much as acknowledge its existence only makes those who are dealing with it feel more alienated than they already are. Thank you for reading.

---

There’s nothing romantic about being the best fighter no one has ever heard of. Or about being a good writer whose material not enough people have read. I have hundreds of pages written that I’m scared to publish, and have yet to perform up to my potential in the ring. I don’t know what the hell I’m afraid of. The best explanation I’ve been able to come up with is that I’m subconsciously holding back. If I don’t give one hundred percent, then I’ll still have an excuse if I fail. Or, maybe, I’ve trained myself to shut down – at least partially – during moments when action is most required of me. On the few occasions that I’ve read, or been required to read Shakespeare’s Hamlet, I always felt some kinship with the play’s protagonist. After all, Hamlet’s inability to act was his tragic flaw.

My life must look amazing from the outside. I’m blessed with talent in areas that I enjoy and have been lucky enough to discover them at a young age. My sparring partners, from the lowest amateur to the several established professionals, have paid me every imaginable compliment. I have everything going for me, but I can never quite put it all together when it counts. I perform maybe at thirty or forty percent of my potential and, even with that, I put on a clinic against UConn’s team captain. He barely hit me clean all fight long, and I couldn’t miss with my counter punches. It was like I was seeing everything in slow motion, and I was still not at my best. But I’ve still lost a lot of fights to guys who, quite frankly, aren’t on my level. Whenever I stop fighting, I don’t want to always wonder, ‘What could have been?’ And when I die, I don’t want my closest of kin to find multiple novels’ worth of unpublished work on my computer because I was too scared to follow through on it. It would be such a waste; I need to stop selling myself short.

Hamlet’s hesitancy to act was infuriating to read about, and yet, I understand it on a very deep level. I wish I could say differently, because that would mean that I’m not dealing with the same problem.

So how must it be for those closest to me to watch? Meiya, my mom, my coach. They’re all so supportive of me, even when I don’t perform to my abilities. But I always imagine them feeling the same. Being as disappointed in me as I am myself. So I allow that fear to fester and grow. It’s not a hole inside, whose existence I can cover up anymore. It’s morphed into a crushing burden that I carry everywhere. It drives me to a knee, then to the floor in a heap. I thought I was too smart for this to happen, but it finally caught up to me.

—

“It’s noon. I really should get out of bed. Be productive. Do something.”

“What’s the point? Why does it matter what you do?”

“I…I don’t know. I’m fresh out of answers. Nothing I do makes a difference. I have class in an hour…”

“Fuck it.”

“But…okay.”

“That’s right.”

“I have work today.”

“Call in sick.”

The idea of lying in bed for yet another day is both repulsive and inviting. I don’t feel anything as I look at the accumulating clutter around my room. I’m normally a clean person, but this is getting to be pretty disgusting. What the fuck is wrong with me… I’m barely eating anymore. Can’t even maintain a consistent train of thought. “I should really clean up this mess.”

“No. Stay in bed.”

“Fuck. You.”

“You’ll just end up like your friend did. Sooner or later…”

“Shut up.”

“You’re not making any compelling arguments as to why I should.”

I roll over and look at one of the Muhammad Ali posters that adorn my walls. Ali is standing defiantly over Sonny Liston. What would he think of this pity party? What was that famous quote of his? ‘Don’t quit. Suffer now and live the rest of your life as a champion.’ I force a chuckle, realizing that I’ve got the suffering part down. I sit up in bed.

“You haven’t been quiet in almost three years.”

“Your father’s suicide really got my attention.”

“Because of you, I’m not whole. I haven’t been since that day. If I could physically reach into my chest and rip you out, I would. Bodily pain is easy. That’s why fighting is easy for me…I should go for a run. I’d have a good reason to shower then.”

“Why?”

“I’m not letting you take me. You took my dad already. You took my friend last month. You’re not driving me down like you did them.”

“So naïve…”

“Maybe. But I have a choice. I always have a choice.” I throw one of the many tissues by my bedside into the garbage.

“We’ll see about that.”

I’m starting to pick up the dirty clothing and scattered papers which have totally obscured the area rug by my bed.

“What’s the point of all this, now?”

Ignore it. All the sleepless nights and listless days because of this motherfucking leach. I lie awake, stressed out about everything and nothing at the same time, then shamble through my days. Even when I try to write, nothing comes out. I’m not letting this thing rob me of my creativity, my vitality, or my figurative and literal will to fight anymore.

“Excuse me. I’m fucking talking to you.”

“Because what we do is all that we are.”

Silence.

“Because ultimately, no one gives a shit that I’m struggling. That I’m fucked up. They only see that I’m not going to class, that I’m calling out of work too often. That I’m not training. So what happens then?”

“I don’t know. Why don’t you lie back down? Take a load off…?”

“Then my professors flunk me, and I get fired. My coach pulls me from my next fight. He cares, and would want to help, but his hands would be tied. So I’d be out of work and might not graduate if I don’t do something.”

“Because of me.”

“Because of me. You’ve always been a part of me, but if I have my way, you won’t always be.”

“So that’s it. You’re ‘all better’ now?”

I laugh. It’s the first audible noise I’ve made in I don’t know how long. It seems to echo off the walls. Maybe because I haven’t said a word in days… “No.”

“I don’t follow.”

“No. I’m not all better. Far from it. I still feel lost. I still don’t see how it will get better. I still have no real will to do anything that I used to enjoy. But…I still do want to be happy. I can’t find that hiding under my covers like some sniveling little kid who thinks there are monsters under his bed.”

“We’ll see.”

“I guess we will, but you don’t own me. You owned my father. You owned my grandmother. You do not fucking own me.” My fists are balled. My eyes are boring a hole in the rug in front of me. “You won’t run me into the ground like you’ve done to past generations of my family. I won’t pass you on to my kids, like my father did to me. They won’t even know that you ever existed.”

—

So I shower. I get dressed. I go through the motions. It’s already four o’clock. I’ve missed all of my classes. Again. The day isn’t all lost though. I can take a baby step towards sanity. I can leave my apartment. I put my headphones in my ears and try to tune out some of the inescapable noise in my head. I press play, and Eminem’s “When I’m Gone” resumes, already in the middle. “I look up, it’s just me standin’ in the mirror. These fuckin’ walls must be talkin’, ’cause man I can hear ’em.”

Same, Em.

I stand at the door to my apartment, place my hand on the knob.

And turn.

End

~Sean Donnelly