Fuzzball

Dear readers of this blog,
I apologize for the mush fest you are about to witness. You have come to expect me to make you laugh and I'm about to fail you. Also I think it's been four centuries since I wrote anything for this blog. Feel free to pelt me with your dirty socks. And by "feel free," I mean don't feel free at all. 

-Snark

P.S. I changed the name to "Fuzzball" because...well, it's funny. 

Sometimes I think she was the only person who really understood me. I liked the person I was with her: crazy, confident, witty. What can I say? She rubbed off on me. We called each other the first thing that popped into our heads: fuzzball, platypus toe, radical eyeball. It was weird, but it was great. And the amount of inside jokes? They were astounding for two people who had only known each other two years. We were kindred spirits. We are kindred spirits. It kills me that we’re estranged. And it kills me that it’s my fault. It’s my fault my best friend and I are not on the best terms. 

We’re not speaking at all. It sucks. Because I miss her so much and I really have to stop reading our old text messages, but I know I won’t. There are so many things I wish I could tell her, show her. I wish I could send her this horrible poem I wrote back in September. She’s the only one who would think it was funny. 

I’ve never met anyone quite like the girl with dreams stained with ink. I think it’s fairly safe to say she changed my life. It’s like when lighting strikes and everything is aflame. It’s uncomfortable, but it’s unforgettable and you know that when it’s all over the fire that’s sweeping the barren field is going to ultimately bring growth and healing. Fuzzball is the kind of girl who is too confident. When you don’t have enough confidence in yourself, don’t worry, she has enough confidence for the both of you and them some. And she’s brazen and bold and she doesn’t care. She likes who she is. 

I’ve never characterized myself as someone who had self-esteem issues. I’ve always been insecure about certain parts of myself: my hair, my lips, the color of my skin, my rough hands, and the small scar that runs across my collarbone, dipping into the hollow of my throat. It’s a short list. I had learned to make peace with the rest of me, but I’ve never considered myself pretty. I never thought of myself as ugly either, just average. Nothing special. Boys don’t really crush on me and I always thought that meant I wasn’t that attractive. I went through my phases, finding myself I guess. 

I tried to be bubbly and giggly and sweet like the other girls. I talked like them and dressed like them. I followed the fads and I straightened my hair.  When I got sick of that, I tried to be one of the guys, sporting basketball shorts and a t-shirt. At some point, I settled for tough as nails and biting sarcasm. I was weird. I liked Anime and writing novels, but I was fine with who I was. I was fine with my Hollister t-shirts and skinny jeans. I savored the days when I really really liked who I saw in the mirror. Those days were rare. Rarely, did I hate what I saw. That was only on special occasions after colossal mistakes. At least they seemed colossal at the time. I was always making mistakes. Always messing up.

I hated it. I was a perfectionist trapped in a human body. Some days were miserable. Eventually I started to get over myself. Just slightly and then I met her. Well, I use the word “met” loosely. It was after the worst summer of my life or maybe it was the second worst summer of my life. I was fourteen, for one. On top of that my father had picked up this terrible habit—a habit I’ll leave unnamed. It was only three years ago, but my memories of that summer and the summer before are foggy—like a hallucination. 

My freshman year, I was accepted to Stanford University’s Online high school. I was excited in a muted sort of way. The first day I was determined to friend all of my classmates on Facebook. There was one girl in particular I was anxious to befriend. Her technical difficulties were tragic. Her webcam didn’t work and her mic made a horrific screeching sound any time she attempted to contribute to our English discussion. Eventually, it became the source of many jokes. She accepted my friend request almost immediately. I scanned her page. The first picture that caught my eye was of her adorable puppy, Paddington. He reminded me of my own dog, Ollie. We started talking and I discovered we shared something in common more significant than a love for cute dogs: faith. 

Our entire relationship thrived on the Timothy 4:12, one of my favorite Bible verses. Our Facebook chat soon turned into a phone conversation that lasted for six hours straight and then resumed for another two hours after a quick break. 

We were friends immediately. I venture to say we were best friends immediately. We Skyped constantly and talked on the phone and occasionally texted. We lived eight hours away from each other, and we felt the distance, but it did nothing to dampen the strength of our relationship. Together, we embarked on a journey. Our destination was revolution. We had high hopes and higher aspirations. We were going to change the world. It was crazy, but we didn’t care. 

She had this wild passion for everything she held dear. She was a free spirit and I always kept one toe on the ground. I envied her conviction. I wanted it for myself. I wanted that fire, that passion and I didn’t care if it burned me. I wanted to feel everything, deeply, strongly, clearly. But that’s not the way I’m wired, I guess. My emotions don’t explode. They simmer and sometimes if you really rattle me, they boil. The last time I erupted, I broke a vase and bruised my own hand. That was eleven years ago.

She told me I was like…I wish I could remember her exact words…something comical. A tabby cat perhaps? Or maybe it was an oak tree. I can’t quite remember, but she told me I was strong like a general of an army.

“You fight for people,” she said. “And I’m the nurse. I patch up the wounded.”

 It was a prophecy. It shaped me and marked me. And that’s my super power. I’m strong. I don’t budge. And it made up for the fact that I wasn’t pretty. I clung to it as I fought my demons at home. I played the words over in my head.

But the longer I hung out with Fuzzball, the more the way I saw myself changed. Suddenly, I saw something other than an average face in the mirror. No, I didn’t see beauty not yet. That didn’t come until later, but I stopped counting the flaws on my face so often.

I doubt anyone would guess that I feel insecure sometimes. I think people kind of assume I’m a rock and nothing gets to me just because I don’t cry when my feelings get hurt. I’ve never been one for crying. When I would get in trouble as a little girl, I would look my dad straight in the eye as he scolded me. I’d hold back my tears and nod my head resolutely. I was always determined to take my punishments with dignity. There was no point in crying. I knew my actions had consequences. I wasn’t trying to manipulate my parents into letting me off the hook, so I took my punishments bravely and sometimes I punished myself before my parents even got around to it. 

I’m pretty sure there’s a warrior in me, but there’s a warrior in her too. It’s a different kind of fight, a different kind of war. She’s impulsive. She blurts out what she thinks, what she feels. I calculate and imagine the possible effect of my words…sometimes. Sometimes I’m just as bad as she is.

As I tried to help a friend today with a problem she’s dealing with I wished for her charisma. Her way of saying just right thing in the strangest way. I wished for her ability to heal with her words. I’m not Fuzzball. But I miss her. 

And it hit me like a pound of flesh to my chest today of all days. It hit me because I looked in the mirror and I thought I was a little bit beautiful.