open letter?

Of all the things I love about Washington, having met you is perhaps my favorite. 

In such little time, I feel that you have made me grow in a way I didn't know I should.

Because of you, I have taken journeys to places unknown and discovered islands in my mind - all of which, today, I love to visit. Sometimes, when you're as hectic as I am, you forget how lovely it is to take a vacation. 

Nervousness is a sickness from which I have suffered greatly for most of my life.

Society in this day and age considers people like me healthy. I understand this. Our symptoms aren't physical; but they are exhausting. I hate being nervous, and I am, always. I am permanently nervous. I highlight this point, because to understand me, you must understand this. More often than not, my manic behavior stems from this condition. 

I am truly sorry for the dismal crisis I have put you through. I wish you had never been exposed to such episodes of mine. It brings me great pain to watch others discover this part of me. For being as inconsiderate as I am, I always find this to be a positive exception. But as you see, it fails to arrive timely, leaving me with nothing but an offer of apology. This is the most difficult for me; being in the wrong hyper-activates my chronic anxiety. So as you touch this letter with your fingers, between the ink and the paper, I hope you can also feel the shades of my sincerity.

I realize now that it's much needed for me to apologize for something else - more so than this incident. In exchange for all of the above that you have introduced to my life, I suspect that I have brought yours an idiosyncratic distress. Amidst the chaos of the evening, my eyes caught something that night. It's one of those things that you hate you notice, like the sound of a refrigerator in a jazz concert, but once you do, you can't ever ignore. I saw the anxiety. We, the infected, are the masters of anxiety. We can recognize all shapes and forms of it. I saw the anxiety - not that which I inflicted upon you with my hysteria, but that which I inflicted upon you with my mere presence. My mind raced through timelines. I watched myself come in and, like a professional, disrupt your world. I turned my head to the poster on your wall - and, within seconds, I understood. 

I walk with red paint attached to my hands. I don't want to splash it on your wall. But I am a child. I don't yet know how not to.

For this, I am deeply sorry. I am sorry I have stained your black and white. I am sorry you see it as a stain. I am sorry I can't let go of my paint. And above all, I am sorry that you need me to.