There’s a massive history of people feeling ashamed of their epilepsy. Epilepsy was hidden. Epilepsy was a secret. Epilepsy was something to fear. Epilepsy was and is a stigma.
But you have it, Carrie. You have it, and it will be okay.
Remember, we define ourselves. Define yourself as awesome.
Carrie Jones is the internationally (and New York Times) best-selling author of the Need series and other books. For more information about Carrie, please visit CarrieJonesBooks.com.
REGARDING YOUR COMMENDABLE DECISION TO LIVE
Mike Jung
Dear Teen Me,
It’s good that I’m sending you a letter from here in the future, because I know it’s not likely you’d trust me if I tried to talk to you in person. You don’t trust many people, and honestly, why would you? You’re fifteen, and fifteen, for you, was a monstrously bad year. Right now you can’t even remember a time when your life wasn’t all about bullies, bullies, bullies—they’ve verbally laid into you every day for the past four years, and it’s gotten physical more than a few times as well. That’s approximately a thousand days of hearing all the reasons why you’re such a catastrophic loser: your face, clothes, skin, hair, lack of athletic ability, fondness for role-playing games, awkwardness with girls, bookworm tendencies, and ethnicity are all fair game.
It’s also clear that no help is forthcoming. For example, there was that teacher who stood and watched through the locker room window as a cluster of bigger guys pushed you into a corner locker and showered you with racist, homophobic taunts, preventing you from getting dressed until the room was emptied out. And the fact that you’re at least a year younger than everyone else in the room doesn’t make things any easier—your suspicion that your parents were wrong about moving you up a grade is 192 percent confirmed.
Yep, good times. There are two years of high school left to go—you’re looking at another 500 days of similar treatment—but the damage has already been done. The bullies and critics have convinced you that they’re right. You despise yourself.
I’m genuinely sorry. You’re in emotional agony, you feel desperately alone, and you can’t engage with the good things and amazing people that are actually there for you. In fact, fifteen is the age when you first truly consider the most extreme way out. Anger and bitterness—at your so-called peers, at your family, at the entire, unfeeling universe—nearly consume you, and in the years to come you’ll spend more than one sleepless night deciding whether or not to go on living.
I get it, you know? You don’t see any other solution. But there is another way—although it’s a hard one. You can hang in there, deal with the loneliness and feelings of worthlessness as best you can, and wait it out. You want to get through this, my friend. I know it feels like things will never change, but they will (although in all honestly it’s going to be a while longer).
You’ll spend a long string of years coping with your rage, fleeing the black hole of depression, and struggling to make yourself whole again. You’ll self-medicate. You won’t date very many people, and when you do, your decision-making will be, um, questionable. And every time you see another human being, you’ll instinctively turn away, because nearly every person on the planet looks like a slavering monster-in-waiting. But eventually you’ll discover that the seeds of compassion, kindness, and generosity are still within you. It’s very, very important that you keep those seeds alive, because later in life you’ll finally learn how to make them grow.
It’s not a given that those seeds of kindness will sprout, you know—in fact, there’ll be times when you’ll act in the same brutish, inexcusable manner as your tormenters. There’ll be an incident later in your junior year involving a guy in your class who deals with some of the same treatment you do. The two of you have already spent a lot of time trying to humiliate each other, which is regrettable on so, so many levels, but one day you’ll go too far. You’ll circulate a questionnaire asking if this guy is the world’s biggest…let’s say orifice. It’ll be a senseless, stupid act of cruelty, and while you might not deserve to be thrown headfirst into a wall (which is what’ll happen—watch your head, chief), it won’t be hard to understand the intensity of his reaction. The goose egg on your forehead will heal, but the loose thread in your moral fiber is probably still there to this day.
Thankfully, you won’t go permanently down that road. That’s not to say you lack a normal range of moronic tendencies, or that you’ll never hurt anyone ever again, but after years of soul-searching and self-discovery it’ll be possible to describe you as a decent guy. I know, “decent guy” lacks the high-school sizzle of things like “rock star,” “babe magnet,” or “party animal.” You’ll never morph into any of those things (although you’ll occasionally humiliate the bejesus out of yourself in trying). It’s easy to underestimate the value of being a decent guy, but it’s what saves you in the end.
I’m not saying your future “oh hooray, I’m a decent guy” self-assessment will fix everything, because it won’t. You feel broken at fifteen, and you’ll still feel somewhat broken at my age. You’ll still struggle in group situations, commit an atrocious variety of social blunders, and second-guess yourself on a continual basis. But you’ll also understand who you are, accept who you are, and—miraculously—kinda sorta like who you are.
I know, you’re thinking, “BUT HOW?” I’m afraid there won’t be some clear-cut transformational moment when everything changes. What you’ll do instead is retract your extremities like a turtle, and seek refuge in creativity—both other people’s, and your own.
For example, there’s music. Being a band geek isn’t sufficient though, right? So instead, you become the first male flutist at your high school in what, twenty years? It’s like writing, “PLEASE BEAT ME SENSELESS,” on your forehead. However, every so often, someone tells you how much they respect that choice. At your age, it means nothing to hear that, but those little comments are piling up in your subconscious.
You’ll keep making art, and for years that’ll be your one reliable source of validation from the world. You’ll copy down hundreds of superheroes, monsters, and other characters from pop culture, and then later on you’ll create your own characters. You’ll still occasionally hear about the Turtle Mafia decades later, for example—one friend will even remember that you came up with that before Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. More of those comments piling up, right?
You’ll continue to submerge yourself in fantasy, science fiction, horror, and comic books galore. You’ll absorb those books. You don’t even know how much you’re learning, but the incessant reading and drawing will become a thermonuclear source of internalized storytelling knowledge.
Eventually you’ll hit this sweet spot where people actually want to hear your stories! It’ll make all the difference. You’ll always struggle to build relationships, but there are people you’ll love, and who’ll love you back. Sometimes it’ll be complicated, or painful, or just plain weird, but other times it’ll be glorious. On some days you’ll feel the weight of life’s cruelty and unfairness, and you’ll shrug it off, because the different kinds of love you’ll feel for so many people will propel you forward like psychological rocket fuel. You’ll love your wife and children above all, but you’ll also love the friends you make in all areas of life, especially in the world of children’s literature. And your writing career will provide a slew of opportunities to express that love—which happens to be something you do better than almost anything else.
I won’t press you to remember that time is on your side, because I enjoy the benefit of hindsight—time was on your side, though, and you made it! It seems miraculous, considering all the self-destructive choices you’ll make just between the ages of fifteen and twenty-five. In a way, you will try to take your own life, but in a long, slow, downward-spiral sort of way. In the end, however, you’ll choose to live. You’ll finally realize you’re not the waste of space so many people have said you were. Right now, you’re laying a foundation fo
r the rest of your life, and when you reach the place where I am now it’ll feel like the world is absolutely exploding with possibilities. It’s gonna be amazing!
Hang in there, pal. You’ll be glad you did, and you won’t be the only one.
Mike Jung is alive and well and living in Northern California—which is good because, you know, he likes it there. In a show of highly suspect judgment, his wife and two children live there with him. Mike’s debut middle-grade novel, Geeks, Girls and Secret Identities, will be released in fall 2012.
GETTING PAST THE FEAR
Stasia Ward Kehoe
Dear Teen Me,
As I write this letter, you have kids of your own. I know, right now you’re telling everyone that you’re an artist, swearing that you’ll never marry or have children. But there’ll be a guy who changes that plan. Meanwhile, you’ll bury yourself in dance and theater, pretending you’re too busy for boys. Really, you’re afraid of them. In fact, you’re afraid of so many things that I sometimes wonder how you let your friend Aimee drag you to that frat party. It’s probably because you were afraid to lose Aimee, who’s one of your few reliable friends.
So now you’re standing by the living room fireplace on Greek Row. The music pounds through the floorboards, and then up your legs and into your frantic heart. Even if Aimee hadn’t disappeared into the crowd, there would still be no way for you to talk to anyone here. You stand still, afraid to even sip the punch (which smells more like acne medicine than fruit juice).
You’re about to go sit out the rest of this miserable night on the front porch when Joe, the boy Aimee had come to flirt with, approaches you. He leans his arm against the chimney, shielding you from the frenzy. He says something about getting away from the chaos. You nod because you don’t like crowds either, and Joe invites you to his room.
You want to get away from the party so badly that you actually think Joe’s bedroom is preferable to the front stoop. And you justify your lapse in judgment by blaming Aimee for ditching you first. What you don’t see now is that your biggest fear—even worse than boys—is of being lonely.
With barely a word, Joe leads you past the desk to his bed, directing you onto your back by pointing out the glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling. In the dim, quiet room, he starts kissing you. He tugs your tank top down, staring, while you feel about as romanced as a frog on a dissecting table. When Joe gets up, muttering, “I’ll be right back,” your brain finally kicks into gear. You fix your shirt, find the door, and run straight to Aimee’s car. You’re still there, shivering, when she turns up an hour later, saying that she never found Joe.
You tell Aimee that the party was lame. What you don’t tell her is what actually happened—even though that might have saved her some heartache later on. Instead, you swallow the shame of that night, flashing back to the image of your exposed breasts, white in the fluorescent plastic starlight, again and again. You keep Aimee as your friend by nodding, agreeing, and keeping quiet for the rest of high school.
This is not the last time you’ll make a bad judgment call. There will be other Joes. You’ll spend several more years behind your angsty, artsy mask before you’re able to openly admit how lonely and afraid you are.
You’re going to find your way eventually, but if it were possible, I wish I could help you be more confident now. Have the courage to say yes to a year of study abroad, to say no to things you don’t want. Ask for more time when you feel uncertain. Don’t turn down a cool job because you’re afraid of traveling alone across the city, and don’t miss the opportunity to see a great show just because your friend bails. Your life is the sum of your experiences, and fear just gets in the way. So live more, and fear less!
Stasia Ward Kehoe is the author of Audition (2011), and she started dancing before kindergarten, writing before high school, and kissing (sadly) after that. She has worked in theaters, banks, computer labs, and publishing houses, and can name a cute boy she lusted after without taking action at every one of those places. She lives in western Washington with her husband and kids. Visit her at StasiaWardKehoe.com.
BAD GIRL
Tara Kelly
Dear Teen Me,
You meet her your freshman year. You’re the awkward new kid who dresses like a goth one day and like your mother the next. She’s the “school slut,” the kind of girl every other girl warns you about. But she’ll be the first person to reach out to you…the only person.
She’s not the most beautiful girl you’ve ever seen, but everyone notices her. It’s not her clothes. She dresses like a lot of girls, vintage jeans and baby tees with a logo or a slogan across the chest. It’s not her sunshine hair or her scarlet lipstick. It’s not even her voice, rough and sweet at the same time. It’s the unconscious things, the little things. The way her lips are always turned up. The sway of her hips. The look in her eyes—she’s seen enough life for someone twice her age.
The two of you always sneak off campus at lunch. Sometimes you go to the park. Sometimes her apartment. She talks about guys between drags of Marb Reds (the only brand to smoke, in her opinion). She’s always dating some older guy…sometimes a lot older. You think it’s pretty creepy, but you don’t tell her so. She’s not the first girl you’ve known who’s dated older guys. And you don’t want her to know how inexperienced you are. You don’t want her to know a lot of things.
You wonder why she hangs out with you, why she doesn’t see you for the dork you think you are. A big night for you is hanging out at the park with your best friend and his skater buddies, trying to get brain freeze from Slurpees. But your first night with her is something you’ll never forget. Nothing major happens, but it’s your first taste of her world—a world that will soon become yours.
She sends some guys to your house to pick you up while she gets ready. She only just met these guys the day before. They show up in this old muscle car. You won’t remember the make or model…just that it was green and loud. She’s dating the driver, who looks and dresses a lot like Spike in Buffy The Vampire Slayer (you’ll see what I mean in a couple years). He likes his car and his metal at breakneck speeds. You think he’s a lot older—old enough to buy booze. Or maybe he just knows where to buy it. His friends are closer to your age, sixteen maybe.
You don’t talk to them. They don’t talk to you. The guy in the flannel keeps looking at you, though. Like he wants to say something. He’s quieter than the others, a little less sure of himself. At some point he says, “It’s okay, you know. We’re not axe-murderers.” You won’t remember what anyone says for the rest of that night, but you’ll always remember that. Don’t ask me why.
You wonder how she does it. Never questions things. Never obsesses over what people think. She’ll try anything once. You’ll wish you could be like her. And sadly, you’ll try to be.
Here’s the thing: You’re a freak. Always were. Always will be. You’re a creative spirit who wants to bend the rules. But you’re also practical and analytical. One day you’ll love this about yourself. But right now you hate it. You just want to be free…like her.
But she’s hiding as much as you are. One day she’s going to show you who she really is…and it’s going to terrify you.
I’m not going to tell you what happens, though. It’s an experience you need to have. It’s going to change the way you look at friendship for years to come.
Tara Kelly is a Jill of all trades—a YA author, one-girl band, and Web/graphic designer. She’s written two YA books, Harmonic Feedback (2010) and Amplified (2011). Visit her at TheTaraTracks.com.
PICK UP THE PHONE AND CALL HIM BACK. RIGHT. NOW.
Miranda Kenneally
Dear Teen Me,
You’ve fallen for a guy you’ve known for pretty much your whole life.
Let’s call him Charlie. He hugs you. He writes notes on the backs of your hands, using those orange and purple gel pens you love so much. He swaps sneakers with you. You laugh like crazy together, reciting lines from the Austin Powers movies. He always gr
abs a seat next to you in the church van.
Then he decides he likes your friend, and they start dating. You want to die.
He knows you love him, but he’s just not into you like that. And he’s the whole reason you decided to become a manager for the boys’ soccer team! So now you’re stuck with him every day at practice and at games. You can’t stop looking at him, thinking about him.
You believe that if he doesn’t start liking you back soon, you will die. For real.
Now for a bit of good news: There are some seriously hot senior guys on the soccer team—but every time they look your way, you bow your head and avoid them. You talk to the guys who are your age instead. You know you aren’t pretty. You’re nice and sweet and funny but guys don’t like you. They like your friends. They ask you to put in a good word for them with Julie and Stephanie.
One day on the sidelines, the captain of the team—let’s call him Jack—sits down beside you on the grass. He’s eighteen and has this cropped brown hair and a nice smile. He’s very cute in that all-American guy kind of way. Even in February, he has a tan. He’s about to graduate.
You’re fifteen. There’s no way in hell a guy like this is into you, so you just act like yourself. You make him laugh. You tell him about this really cheesy pickup line you heard. “I may not be Fred Flintstone but I sure can make your bed rock.”
He laughs.
“I saw your family in my church directory,” you tell him. “But you never come to choir practice or to Sunday night socials or summer camp or anything.”
Dear Teen Me Page 9