I am not a talker. I am not a chatter, a bull thrower or a conversation starter. I tend to sit back and watch and listen, taking things in, but never really participating, never fully letting myself join in the fun. Mostly because I feel like I don’t know how.

I have almost no idea how to say this, except just to say it. (Or write it, technically.) I have a stutter, a fairly profound stutter. It’s really weird to have to tell someone that, because it’s so apparent the moment I open my mouth. And I’ve spent so much time this summer trying to figure out a way to just … tell you. Ignoring or forgetting that the easiest way to say something difficult is to just say it and get it over with. I put aside my fears to come out to my parents, I found the nerve to tell you about my shyness and going to therapy, but I couldn’t seem to draw up the courage to tell you about my stutter.

Here’s the thing though, the wonder of it all, when you sent me that first email you took my stumbling blocks out of the equation. My voice, my physical voice, has a tendency to let me down, right when I need it the most. And I quickly found I was almost, for lack of a better word, addicted to not just being the kid with a stutter. Because with you, this summer, I could be myself. I loved how I felt talking to you and not worrying about how I sounded. It was just amazing to be myself with you, for you.

This isn’t to say that there aren’t other places in my life where I get to be myself. Having a friend like Matt helps, playing music helps, running miles and miles helps. But you changed my life quickly and deftly in several ways, just by sending an email. First you told me that you wouldn’t have had to courage to do what I did, which made me feel brave. You sought me out, which made me feel wanted. And you called me level-headed, something I never get to be when I’m panicking about my speech.

You changed me.

You made my world better.

Even if it had stopped right there, had our friendship never gotten past those initial emails, I would have been a happier person, a little bit better off because of your brief sojourn into my world. You gave me something that no one would ever be able to take from me- confidence. I don’t think I’d ever felt confident the way I did after that first set of emails. I felt like I was ready to take on the world, or if not the whole world, at least an online friendship with a guy from my Contemporary American Lit class.

I never had a lot of friends, I still don’t. I don’t really know how to have friends, while I’m worrying about what to say. I’m getting better at it, I’m less anxious about interacting with people in general, but I’m still never quite comfortable socializing. (This is something that Paula and I discussed a lot this summer, hence my acute introspection on the topic.) In those situations where I have to talk to people, I never feel like everything is good. I usually just feel like things are various shades of passable. The situation is okay, or do-able, or adequate, but rarely good, never great. But talking to you, becoming friends with you, made me feel great. For the first time in my life I felt like I was interacting with someone and making a friend without them having preconceived notions about me.

I know that a lot of people assume I’m stupid from the moment I start talking. I watch them, how they can’t look at me when I stutter, and I hear them speak to me extra slowly. I know they laugh at me sometimes, and I know that has to do with their own inability to deal with uncomfortable situations. But that doesn’t make things easier for me. Sometimes I get frustrated, but mostly I just feel so embarrassed. Usually I just walk away. I wonder if I’d have more friends if I didn’t walk away from so many people. I didn’t have to walk away from you, because my stutter didn’t matter.

I found myself revealing things to you that I don’t easily reveal. I found myself desperate for you to know things about me. The problem was, I didn’t know how to tell you about my stutter and the longer I waited the more awkward I felt about it. The more awkward I knew it would be when I finally did tell you.

When I found out you were gay, a little scrap of hope grew in my heart. Every time we talked, that hope would grow a little brighter, a little bigger, a little more sure of itself. Just the fact that you were interested enough in me to im or email almost every night was mind-boggling. The idea that a person, a guy, might be attracted to ME was so foreign. I was so worried about you seeing my flaws, about you seeing me and learning the truth.

Every time you asked me to Skype or meet in real life, I would panic briefly and then feel horribly guilty for putting you off. I wanted to see you, speak to you, but my fear was bigger than my desire to meet you. Don’t take that personally. It’s just the kind of lame-o I am.

I spent and still spend, too much of my life being afraid. I live too much of my life inside of my head, worrying over the details instead of experiencing what’s in front of me. But it’s like with each email, and each i.m. you made me inch a little farther out. You made me want to be someone else. You made me want to be the person who wrote you all those emails this summer. And I’m going to try. But I knew, before I could pursue anything with you, you needed to know more about “real life Blaine,” because he’s a much different guy than “online Blaine.” You might not like him as much.

I’m so different in person than how I portrayed myself to you this summer. And I know I mentioned that to you then, but I knew there was no way for you to understand fully, having never met me. The more I want to talk, the harder it is for me to speak. Some days, I’d rather just not talk at all, because it’s easier. And there are other times, most of the time, where even when I do speak, it’s not what I want to say. Every sentence is a pale and washed out rendering of what I really want to say, but those are the words that flowed out, because the words that I needed weren’t there. Or they started with b’s. I can’t say b-words without stuttering. It’s so embarrassing, particularly considering that my name starts with a b.

I’ve wanted to tell you a lot of stuff during the past few months that I couldn’t because it had to do with my stutter. I also didn’t want you to feel bad for me. It was like I wanted you know that I had a panic attack trying to say my name during a coffee order, but I didn’t want you know how I pathetic I was. I wanted to vent to you about one of the other camp counselors making fun of my stutter behind my back (unfortunately, though, not out of my earshot), but I didn’t want you to pity me.

It’s so hard wanting to get to know someone when you’re hiding an element of yourself that normally everyone just sees. And it’s even harder when you’re trying to hide all the sad and bad things that happen in your life. But this is my life and I want you to be part of it Kurt. Hiding it from you isn’t going to make life easier. Sharing it with you makes me feel better, downright wonderful most of the time.

As for what happened at the end of the summer...

When I came out to my parents, it was a really bizarre situation. They took it better than I ever could have hoped, but I was still anxious. Now that I was going to be back in the city and my parents hadn’t disowned me (or thrown me to the lions) I could pretty much go about my life as I saw fit. And that was bewildering.

What I really wanted, when the dust settled, was to call you- not email you, or i.m. you or text you. I wanted to call you, to talk to you. That’s not something I’d ever wanted before. The phone is my arch-nemesis. I avoid it like the plague and yet I found myself picking up my phone everyday, literally 10, 20, 30 times and I would scroll to your number. I got so close, so many times. But I knew I couldn’t call you.

You were the only person I wanted to talk to, but I don’t actually know how to talk. Obviously I know how to physically speak, but I don’t know how to talk in that way that people take for granted. To just say things and not be terrified, to have people listen and not just feel like they’re going to laugh at me when I mess up. To take that step with you, while I was feeling so vulnerable, it was more than impossible. The idea was painful to the point where I just had to walk away. As usual, I found myself walking away from a potential friendship.

But I told myself that I had good reason to walk away this time and I promised myself that I would try to talk to you eventually. It’s just that the first time you heard my voice, I didn’t want you to be caught unaware by my stutter. I know, I know, it’s not my problem to make sure that you’re comfortable with how I speak. It’s all ass backward logic. But I couldn’t help it. I would be nervous enough, I didn’t need the element of surprise.

So, I started writing you this letter. I guess I imagine that when I finally get to meet you, but before I actually have to speak, I’ll hand you this. You’ll read it, I suppose while I stand there, lurking awkwardly. No, that sounds wrong. I’ll work on that part of the plan. Maybe I’ll hand it to you and run away. And hide. And cry for a little while, just knowing that you’re reading this horribly embarrassing, painfully earnest and ridiculously long missive. I hope I haven’t overwhelmed you too much.

I guess what I’m getting at, circuitously, is that I am so sorry Kurt. I’m extremely sorry for not being fully honest with you. I’m even sorrier for being such an assclown lately. I can’t promise that it won’t happen again. I’ve been told that I need to get over myself. But I want to try to be better for you. You make me want to be more than I am. I hope you still might like me after reading all this. I hope you can be patient with me.

I’m terrified of what happens next. I’m terrified of nothing happening. No matter what, I’m so glad I met you though. Because you made me feel brave and wanted and levelheaded. I’ve never been any of that before.

I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness, but I hope you at least consider it. I can and will make this up to you. I might need a little time, but

~~~~~

A moment of Kurt

But what, Blaine? BUT WHAT??? How can he just leave me hanging like that? When he said the letter wasn’t finished I didn’t expect it to end mid-sentence.

Cheese. On. A. Cracker.