Dear Teen Me: Authors Write Letters to Their Teen Selves (True Stories) (41 page)

No one has power over you. Not now, not ever. So please, step away from the mirror and step back into your life. You’ll thank me for it later.

Mariko Tamaki

Dear Teen Me,

You’re fifteen years old, and you want to die.

Just so you know, not a lot of people know this about you. People see you with your book, sitting in the windowsill. They see you writing poetry in your poetry binder. They see your picture in the yearbook, bangs in your face, slouched in the back row. But that’s all they see.

No one knows how sad you are. Your parents don’t even know you’re sad at all, mostly because you avoid them—preferring to snack on cereal and soy sauce (separately) in your room.

Of course, you have your reasons for keeping to yourself. Girls are so mean in grade school. Later on you’ll marvel at this phenomenon, watching a new generation of teenagers from a safe distance, while teaching creative writing. But at fifteen, this cruelty feels overwhelmingly close. And you feel so incredibly vulnerable.

What I’m trying to say is that yes, it obviously makes sense to try and avoid them, to stay hidden in the camouflage of a shadow. To keep quiet.

But here’s the thing. You keep quiet instead of expressing yourself (which is only a little ironic because you’re also a huge fan of Madonna). You keep quiet instead of saying things you think are funny, because you’re afraid people won’t get the joke and will think you’re weird. You keep your heart tucked into your sleeve instead of being honest about the things and the people (the girls) that you love, because being open about this stuff seems like a surefire invitation for attack.

But this is not a solution. It’s a problem, and it’s what makes you start to think about suicide—about getting away for good.

And let me tell you something, as soon as you stop being quiet, as soon as you stop hiding, and hiding who you are, things will change.

Before this happens, though, you’re going to experience a real crisis. You’ll spend some time in a hospital, and that won’t be any fun at all. You’ll be
diagnosed with depression. And it will seem like an insurmountable diagnosis. But it’s won’t be. Instead, by hitting rock bottom at fifteen, you’ll quickly learn how silly it is to be afraid.

After the hospital you’ll suddenly feel like you have nothing to lose. Hiding your true self will seem like a ridiculous task, because everyone will now have PROOF that you are different. You’ll be legitimately, REALLY, crazy. Everyone at school will know you had to be admitted to the hospital. The “why” will vary according to which particular rumor people choose to believe. So, you’ll think, “Who cares? So I’m nuts. SO WHAT?”

First you’ll find your look—a punk rock, artsy, goth-type thing. You’ll discover the joys of eyeliner as lipstick. You’ll wear little old lady dresses and striped tights. You’ll buy ten-hole purple Doc Martens and wear them to bed because you love them so much. You’ll discover the joys of being the strangest person in the room. You’ll dye your hair purple.

Three years later you’ll go to university and meet and fall in love with a girl who dyes her hair pink.

And, just so you know, even though no one gets your jokes in high school, people will TOTALLY (mostly) get them later on.

As your future self, I can make this promise: Things will TOTALLY get better. Have a little faith in yourself. So stop hiding. Stop being quiet. Be brave.

Don Tate

Dear Teen Me,

Hey there, Donny Tate! I’m sorry to interrupt while you paint. I know how focused you are in art mode, but we need to talk. I am you, thirty years later. My hair is grayer, my face is fuller, my pants are a few sizes larger. But I’m still here—
we’re
still here—alive and kicking in 2012. We’re lucky, though, ‘cause you almost messed it up for the both of us.

You sit there at seventeen-years-old in your high school art class. All decked out in your Playboy shirt, Levi’s jeans, penny loafer shoes. We dressed to impress. But something’s wrong with this picture, and you and I both know it. You stole those jeans (…and the shirt…and the shoes). And you smell like an ashtray after cutting gym class to smoke cigarettes in the parking lot with your boys.

I’m not trying to out you, but if I’m going to help you get on the right track, I need to be real.

I’m writing this letter to give you a piece of advice—something you and I will learn the hard way, after many years of bad decisions: You don’t need to prove anything to anyone but God and yourself.

Don’t worry, I’m not getting all church-boy on you, so wipe the attitude off your face. (You’re just like your daughter—the one you’ve already conceived at seventeen and don’t even know about yet.) Listen, you spend way too much time trying to impress others. For example, that stuff you stole—you didn’t need it. You have two jobs. You stole to impress your friends. And they were impressed. So much so, they pressed you to steal stuff for them, too. Clothes, electronics, hair care products. Whatever they wanted, you got it for them. But where were those “friends” when the police showed up and you got fined for shoplifting?

Please know I’m not judging you. High school is tough, and your home life is too. Especially after mom and dad got divorced. You want to be liked by your peers. You want to be looked up to, held in high esteem. But the most important man in your life—our dad!—dragged your self-esteem through the mud. He didn’t accept you as the artist you were. He wanted a sports star. He
didn’t like your brown skin. He wanted a light-skinned kid with straight hair. He drank a lot and said a lot of really mean things. I get that. I understand.