Party Princess

For my niece,
Riley Sueham Cabot,
another princess in training

“The spirit and will of any child would have been entirely humbled and broken by the changes she has had to submit to. But, upon my word, she seems as little subdued as if—as if she were a princess.”

 

A LITTLE PRINCESS
Frances Hodgson Burnett

 

Dear Dr. Carl Jung
,

I realize that you will never read this letter, primarily because you are dead.

But I feel compelled to write it anyway, because a few months ago during a particularly trying period in my life, a nurse told me I needed to be more verbal about my feelings.

I know writing a letter to a dead person isn’t exactly being verbal, but my situation is such that there are very few people I can actually talk to about my problems. Mostly because those people are the ones causing my problems.

The truth is, Dr. Jung, I have been striving for fifteen and three-quarters years for self-actualization. You remember self-actualization, right? I mean, you should—you invented it.

The thing is, every time I think I have self-actualization on the horizon, something comes along to mess it all up. Like this whole princess thing. I mean, just when I thought I couldn’t possibly become a bigger freak,
POW!
It turns out that I’m also a princess.

Which I realize does not seem like an actual problem to many people. But I’d be very interested to see how THEY would react if every single spare moment of THEIR lives was taken up by lessons in being a royal from their tattooed-eyelidded grandmother; getting stalked by the paparazzi; or attending boring state functions with people who have never even heard of
The OC
, let alone know what’s going on with Seth and Summer’s on-again-off-again romance.

But the princess thing isn’t the only thing that’s put a wedge between me and my quest for self-actualization. Being the sole sane caretaker of my baby brother—who appears to have grave developmental problems because at ten months he still cannot walk without holding on to someone’s (usually my) fingers (while it is true that he has shown markedly advanced verbal skills for his age, knowing two words, “tuck”—truck—and “kee”—kitty—he uses them indiscriminately for all objects, not just trucks and cats)—hasn’t helped much, either.

But that isn’t all. How about the fact I have been elected president of the student council of my school…but am nevertheless still one of the most unpopular people in said school?

Or that I’ve finally figured out that I do have an actual talent (writing—in case you can’t tell from this letter), but also that I won’t be able to pursue a career in my field of choice, because I will be too busy ruling a small European principality? Not
that—according to my English teacher, Ms. Martinez, who says I have a problem with the overuse of adjectives in my descriptive essays—I’m ever going to get published, or even get a job as an assistant writer on a situation comedy.

Or that I finally won the love of the man of my dreams, only to have him so busy with his History of Dystopic Science Fiction in Film course, I hardly ever get to see him.

Do you see where I’m coming from with all of this? Every time self-actualization seems to be within my reach, it is cruelly snatched away by fate. Or my grandmother.

I’m not complaining. I’m just saying…well, exactly how much does a human being have to endure before she can consider herself self-actualized?

Because I really don’t think I can take anymore.

Do you have any tips on how I might achieve transcendence before my sixteenth birthday? Because I would really appreciate some.

Thanks.

 

Your friend,
Mia Thermopolis

 

P. S.: Oh, yeah. I forgot. You’re dead. Sorry. Never mind about the tips thing. I guess I’ll just look some up in the library.