Dear Teen Me: Authors Write Letters to Their Teen Selves (True Stories) (18 page)

So now you’re a teen. Moving to a small town the summer before your eighth grade year means starting high school as the quintessential new kid. Just about everyone else here has been friends since kindergarten, but you don’t know anyone. That puts you on the perimeter of some tightly closed circles, trying to push your way inside. Outsiders rarely reach “in crowd” status, and no matter how nice you are to the cheerleaders, you are no exception. Instead, you find acceptance among the intelligentsia, artistes, and anti-establishmentarians. In other words, the stoners.

And then, when you’re sixteen, your father dies. Suddenly, you have to grow up very quickly, to help your mother deal with a funeral, probate, death taxes. You do everything you can to ease the process, but she falls into a deep depression, closes herself off from everyone, including you. You try your best to understand why, and on some level, you do. But it’s yet another rebuff, and this time, from the person you’re closest to.

So maybe it isn’t surprising that you look to boys for approval. Not that you’re easy. Your Lutheran upbringing has given you a solid moral compass. You’re not interested in casual sex. What you want is someone who loves you. Someone who makes you feel like you are the most special girl in the world. You definitely connect with a few guys, but high school romances tend to be short-lived. With each breakup, you leak a little more self-esteem.

To sum it up, teen Ellen, this is how you see yourself:

Smart. Pretty much geek-smart, and who wants to hang out with a geek?

Plain. You’ll never be pretty, so why bother with makeup? It can’t hide the big bump in your nose. And forget about top-rung boyfriends. They’re looking for glitzier girls.

Fat. The best part about that is not having to worry about cute clothes. Jeans and baggy T-shirts will do.

Decent at dance, choir, drama. To a degree. You don’t get solos or leads. And you didn’t make the cheer squad.

Different. You’ll never fit into mainstream cliques. Plus, you have this annoying habit of making friends with other kids who are different, too. Which pushes you even closer toward freak distinction.

Probable yearbook description: Most Likely to Be Rejected.

Chin up. You won’t know this for a very long time (when you reconnect with your old classmates through something called Facebook), but this is how other people see you:

Smart. Reliable. You’re the one cheaters want to sit behind on test day. You’ll ace your SATs and get into the college of your choice.

Pretty. You have a natural beauty that doesn’t rely on makeup. Don’t worry about your nose. No one notices it. They’re looking at your smile.

Fit. Between dance, track, and horseback riding, you’ve got amazing legs and a great rear end. These are things no amount of dieting can achieve.

Talented. You continue to publish poetry and win every creative writing contest you enter. And you sure know how to rock ‘n’ roll.

Different. You are sensitive and more caring than most. You are a rebel, and speak your mind, especially about inequalities you see. You are brave.

Probable yearbook description: Most Likely to Take a Stand.

You graduate near the top of your class. Tossing that tasseled cap feels like the first step toward freedom. It is a sprint toward adulthood, where life will be just as confusing as ever. You’ll drop out of college, choose the wrong guys. A couple will hurt you, and one will abuse you. Trust will come harder and harder. But each wrong turn makes you wiser. After a while you’ll realize that love isn’t about control. It’s about mutual respect. Long-term relationships are born of friendship. And that has nothing to do with how you look, but rather who you are inside.

Eventually, you find forever connection with an amazing man. One who embraces you, and the responsibilities of a ready-made family. Yes, you’ll have three children, one of whom will be responsible for an earthquake of pain. But you’ll survive this heartbreak, too, and not only does it make you stronger, it puts you on the path you don’t yet know you’re searching for. (I’ll give you a hint: Keep writing poetry.)

You will parent a fourth child, too. Full circle, you’ll adopt him when you are forty-two, the exact same age your mother was when she adopted you. And, full circle, he will be bullied and struggle with feeling different. Being adopted has that effect. But you’ve been there, and recognize the emotions he experiences. You will help him grow into a brilliant young man, in part because of the things you have been through yourself. Your past helps create his future.

What I wish you could understand, teen me, is that the past
does
create the future. Everything that sets you apart also makes you unique. You are finding a distinctive voice, and one day that voice will speak not only
to
many, but also
for
many who can’t speak for themselves. All that rejection helps you grow a thick skin, one you’ll need when you finally settle into the career you were destined for. Being pushed away makes you want to gather others in. And you will, in ways small and immense.

Of course, if you suspected any of this now, you might just crawl into your closet and stay there, where it’s private. Cozy. Safe. But here’s the thing: Life isn’t always safe. It isn’t always happy or pretty or neat. Sometimes it’s downright sad and ugly and messy. Dangerous, even. You have to take risks to discover courage. You must know pain to understand the true meaning of joy. And only through experiencing the sting of death will you come to cherish living.

You will make mistakes. Everyone does. Accept that—no,
value
that—and keep moving forward. I promise, in the future you’ll look back and decide you wouldn’t change a thing. Each misstep, each sidestep, each baby step brings you one step closer to where you belong, and once you reach this place, every day will bring immense satisfaction.

Dearest Teen Ellen. You
were
unusual from the start. Each inimitable day of your life helps create a voice completely your own.