Dear Teen Me: Authors Write Letters to Their Teen Selves (True Stories) (24 page)

But you will, I promise.

Mary Lindsey

Dear Teen Me,

The adults around you love to say, “Life’s not fair”—which is totally unnecessary. You’re slapped in the face with that fact every time you step through the door to your house. Just like you, the house seems cheerful and composed from the outside, but inside, it’s a disaster.

You use the trick you learned in acting class: Work from the inside out, and if that doesn’t achieve the desired effect, cloak from the outside in.

I remember that last day of summer before your freshman year of high school. You made a pact with yourself. You closed the door to the laundry room (it was the only way to get away from
them
), and you vowed to never give in to addiction. You would not give up on yourself or on your future. You would never be like
them
, and you would never allow anyone to make you feel bad about yourself. Most of all, you’d never let anyone in on your private life outside of school. Success is based on appearances, and you would appear to be normal.

On one hand, this was a fantastic strategy. At sixteen, you’d realized that self-worth and outer impressions are keys to success. You have loads of friends (however superficial they may be) and will even be elected cheerleader—the pinnacle of high school success, right?

On the other hand, your strategy is unhealthy. You’re lucky this plan worked, because holding things in is not only stressful, but it can be physically and psychologically dangerous.

Next year, when you’re seventeen, you’ll find someone with whom you can share your pain and struggle. Someone who will understand what you’re going through and who won’t judge you, gossip about you, or lord your secrets over you. Someone who will tell you that you can rise above it. Someone who believes in you unconditionally, and who will hold a place in your heart for the rest of your life.

Something else I wish you knew right now: There’s always hope. At sixteen, you know in your heart that you will make it, but just as surely, you know that
they
will not.

The truth is, addiction can be beaten. Old patterns can be changed, and some of those people you are writing off as lost causes will turn it around, become sober, and pull away from the destructive behavior that you’re trying so hard to avoid.

There’s an old saying, “That which doesn’t kill us, makes us stronger.” It didn’t kill you (obviously, since I’m here today writing this letter), and you’re going to come out of your teens very, very strong. Hang in there. Your future will amaze you.

Nikki Loftin

Dear Teen Me,

I wish I could stop you.

I wish I could stop you from even sitting on that tree swing with your First Real High School Boyfriend (he’s a sophomore and you’re just a freshman!), Bill Underhill.
^*
Because I see where this is going. And I really wish I could stop you from leaning in for that first kiss. (That atrocious, saliva-soaked, tongue-so-far-down-your-throat-you-gag-and-almost-throw-up-Lucky-Charms, poorly executed car wash of a French kiss.)

But mostly? I wish I could stop you from saying what you say about three kisses later.

When you ask—oh God—if he wouldn’t mind NEVER kissing you like that again? Because he’s a great boyfriend, but UGH! THAT WAS SO GROSS!

You know what’s next: No more boyfriend.

You’ve pretty much always come right out and said what you thought, without thinking about the consequences. There are lots of times when it doesn’t turn out all that great (although having your face exfoliated by Bill’s tongue one more time would have been cause for homicide, so maybe you were right to insult the guy), but that runaway mouth of yours is going to cause real pain to friends and family members. Enough pain that I really, really wish I could get you to listen to this one piece of advice: Whether you intend to compliment or insult, think, for just a second, before you speak.

It’s probably hopeless. Still, don’t despair. Your tendency to blab’s going to do some good, too.

For instance, in a month, your friends will start telling you how much the cute/popular Ray Vargas likes you. At the first high school dance, when he asks you to dance, you’ll say yes, thrilled not to be the Utter Social Reject you were in middle school.

“So, you’re cute,” he’ll say.

You’ll giggle.

But then he’ll say, “I hear you dated some real loser last year. Why would you do that?”

You have a sudden vision of the “loser” he means: that darling seventh-grade boy who brought you roses and made you a set of twelve-inch-tall initials—N.L.—out of scrap
metal in shop class (which he subsequently painted gold). And what this Ray character just said about him will completely tick you off.

Your mouth will start to move before you can think. Before you wonder if you shouldn’t just smile and say, “I don’t know. Silly me,” or something equally dumb. Instead, you’ll take a step back and say, “Well, I guess I didn’t think he was such a loser, or I wouldn’t have dated him.”