Dear Teen Me: Authors Write Letters to Their Teen Selves (True Stories) (17 page)

P. J. Hoover

Dear Teen Me,

Isn’t it cute how people call you “Trish the Dish?” Yes, it’s totally flattering, and I’m glad you own it. If you’re going to have a nickname, one that makes you out to be an attractive female is choice. I mean, it’s way better than “phat.” No matter how much explanation is given, that one never sounds good.

In case you don’t know, I think you’re fantastic. In lots of ways, I wish I were more like you. From your confidence to your intelligence (hello, math superstar!), and especially the way you plan for the future yet live for the moment, you’re amazing. But here’s the thing. You’re letting something sneak in. Something you aren’t even aware of. It’s slipping in through the cracks, but it’s like venom, and it’s poisoning your mind. Here, from the future, it’s so obvious, but you just don’t see it. You never have. I wish I could make it stop, because, despite all the awesome things you accomplish in your life, this is the single thing that’s caused you the most unhappiness and distress.

It starts small. Your dance instructor mentions you’ve gained ten pounds in the last year (puberty anyone?). A male classmate mentions some other girl has a nicer figure than you (obviously not a choice male specimen). Your pants fit a bit snug, and a “friend” feels inclined to mention this to you (le sigh. Why must people feel so inclined?). These little bits and pieces wedge their way into your psyche.

The first time you go on a true diet, you see success. You see how the less you put in your mouth, the more weight you lose. It’s simple mathematics, and you’ve always been great at math. Remember, it’s one of the things I love about you. So you start experimenting with eating, binging and purging and starving and compulsively exercising, and from there it’s all downhill.

I wish I could give you better news. But the sad fact of the matter is that you plunge into a dark realm of anorexic and bulimic habits that stays in full swing for the better part of seven years. You try everything. First, you don’t eat. Like anything. And yes, the weight comes off. But you almost pass out when you stand up, and you don’t have the energy to walk up the stairs. This isn’t
sustainable, and you crumple. The forty pounds you just lost comes back, along with an extra ten.

The bulimia starts. And it stays. I’ll be frank with you. You smell like vomit. Your face is puffy and swollen, and you’re still overweight. And even though you think you are all sly and clever, everyone knows. You’re not even fooling yourself. The years take their toll. Your confidence is crushed, and now you have a future filled with eating disorder baggage.

If you’re looking for a solution, I don’t have it. Even now, twenty-one years later, diets still make you uneasy. I wish I could tell you to get your head out of the toilet and listen to me, but you’re too stubborn. Be strong. Find something to immerse yourself in. Maybe kung fu. Or Dungeons & Dragons. Look for a place where you don’t constantly compare yourself to everyone else around you. Remember who you are. And remember why you are awesome. Someday the baggage will fade into the background.

Ellen Hopkins

Dear Teen Me,

Your life was unusual from the start. You were adopted at birth. Your mother was forty-two when you were born, the “May” to your father’s “December.” He was seventy-two, and to put that into perspective, he was born in 1883. The son of German immigrants and the definition of a “self-made man,” your dad parlayed a sixth-grade education into a couple of thriving businesses. He made his million dollars not long before he brought nine-day-old you home to a beautiful Spanish-style house in Palm Springs, California. Comedian Bob Hope lived next door and, having adopted a slew of kids himself, he sent his nanny over to help out for a few days. You were, of course, much too young to appreciate this. But let’s just say that few enough people are given such an auspicious beginning.

The truth is, you were a child of privilege. Not so much because of money (though you never went without), but because of a very large measure of love infusing your childhood. You were doted on, and while your parents’ age denied activities some families shared—skiing or mountain biking, for instance—your mom and dad rewarded you with things many children never have. You took piano and voice lessons. Studied dance—ballet, tap, jazz, even hula. You had dogs, cats, canaries, a lizard or two. You owned horses and rode fearlessly—barefoot, bare-headed, and bareback—across the desert and into the hills.

Your mother read to you every day, taught you to read on your own before you even started kindergarten. From her, you developed an ear for language and a passion for classic literature and poetry. Your father was no Puritan, but he wanted you to have faith, and made sure you went to church every Sunday. From him, you learned the value of honesty and hard work. A favorite saying of his stuck with you:
Anything worth doing is worth doing right.

You went to a great private school, where creative teachers encouraged your talents. You excelled at academics, especially anything English or writing-related. You published a poem when you were just nine. Won trophies for your equestrian skills, ribbons at track meets. You aced piano recitals and dance competitions. By anyone’s measure, these were successes. Yet, somehow, you grew up feeling…not good enough.

This probably took root in the knowledge that you were given away as a baby. Your parents were friends with the doctor who arranged the adoption. Curious about where you came from, when you were five you eavesdropped on one of their conversations and heard the doctor say, “Ellen isn’t nearly as pretty as [her half-sister].” Later, you understood your birth mother was only sixteen, unmarried, and unequipped to parent. But as a small child, the message seemed clear: Not pretty enough equaled unworthy. Your birth mother kept her other daughter. She rejected you. You stashed that away, in a cabinet deep inside you, and there it will stay into adulthood.

Elementary school was your “chubby” phase. The kids would chant “Elsie the Cow,” followed by a rousing chorus of moos. And though you shed those few extra pounds before seventh grade, the mirror will always reflect a fat girl. Not thin enough meant unlikeable. In a way, you denied yourself. The Guernsey goes into the internal cupboard, too.