Conversations with Myself
If I could visit my 15 year
old self, this is what I'd say:
“Baby, quit trying to fit
in with those girls. It doesn't matter if you try to buy Guess Jeans
and K-Swiss shoes and try to wear Sunflowers perfume that frankly,
chokes you and gives you a headache, no one cares. You aren't ever
going to be one of the pretty, popular girls because there's so much
inside of you. You couldn't be that flighty and insincere if you
tried. Your personality makes you different. You have artwork and
poetry and English compositions inside your ridiculously smart head
that won't let you be like the other kids. You are going to make
good grades, even when they make fun of you for it. I know some
people don't like you because you are poor. You eat free lunches at
school and borrow money from friends so you can get vending machine
food and look like you fit in. You also look different. You have
weird long legs and knobby knees and small breasts and the whites of
your eyes are blue. People always notice your eyes. Then you have
to explain the bone disease. They make fun of you because they don't
understand it.
All of that is okay though.
One day you'll be beautiful. You'll appreciate those legs, I
promise. One day, the people who make fun of you won't matter. They
won't matter because you won't remember who they are. You'll
remember a general feeling of discomfort when you think of the school
you attend, but you won't remember a single thing anyone ever said to
you. When the scary, huge mean girl threatens you and in self
defense all you can think to do is bark at her like a rabid dog? You
won't even remember that until your best friend tells you the story
twenty years later and she and you both laugh until you cry.
Honey, put those cigarettes
down. I know they help sometimes. Yes, god, they still smell good,
but eventually you are going to want to stop smoking because your
clothes stink and you have to stand out in the freezing cold in
winter to smoke and your kids will plead with you to stop. When you
finally make up your mind to stop, you are going to have to take
prescription pills to help you. These pills will give you three
months of the most horrifying nightmares you will ever have. It
won't matter that you've had to smoke butt ends out of your ashtray
or that you had to look in the couch to get the rest of your
cigarette money or even that people will bitch about it when you do
smoke. You will not want to take those pills, I promise. Just stop
smoking now.
God, you've made some cool
friends. They don't care that you're poor. They are too. As long
as there is money for weed and cigarettes, life is good, huh? I know
you'll only ever smoke weed, it won't lead to anything worse for you.
Your friends give it to you for free and you never spend a dime on
it. Those cool friends are all grown up now. They've all been
married and divorced over and over. One still decorates in skulls
and rock band posters. He's almost 40. He hasn't been sober since
October of his senior year in high school. The other one, that was
so cute is now fat and bald and missing a good portion of his black
teeth. He was supposed to die a while back from liver failure. He
was yellow. He made it through it, according to what I hear. He had
one wife who ran off with the guy who decorates with skulls. He was
the golden boy. Now he's just broke and stoned. One guy may or may
not have a few kids with a couple of people. He's paying for some,
but he isn't sure if their his or not. He's too stoned to care. He
will always be a manager of some pizza place or another. In the town
we grew up in. He never leaves. His ex-wife might have had a child
by the skull guy. She is now on a most wanted list. He is going to
be 40 also. They are all still listening to Pink Floyd and drinking
too much and they've all drifted apart. Even from me. I never hear
directly from any of them. They're on Facebook. We just have
nothing in common now.
Wait! Don't let that guy
have your virginity. Really? Him? He weighs 300 pounds. He grows
up to deliver donuts. He never goes to college and his wife will
send you a weird Facebook message one day about how you messed up his
entire life. You'll date him when you're fifteen years old and he's
eighteen. For six months. During those six months he will display
jealousy, a lack of trust in you, a need for constant drama in one
form or another, and what you just knew was love was simply
excitement over having sex. You'll realize six months from now you
don't love him. Why did you sleep with him? Because two of your
girlfriends had already lost their virginity and out of a set of four
of you, you didn't want to be the last. You will come in third place
in the virginity races with a fat redneck who grows up to deliver
donuts. Congratulations. Later, when you are sixteen and you get
raped, he'll tell you you probably deserved it. Please don't let
that boy have you. You have got to set some standards and not settle
for whatever shows up. I'll show you how if you'll let me.”
This is what I'd tell my 17
year old self:
“Don't try to grow up
yet. Let yourself be a kid just for a while longer. I know it's
fucked up at home. Your mom turned into a stranger when she met your
stepdad. You were promised that you could stay in Alcoa, but they
yanked you up and slapped you down in Oak Ridge. It wasn't a big
deal to them and if they knew you hyperventilated in your car, they'd
make fun of you for being a dramatic teenager. They don't understand
that having people around you that you don't have to explain your
blue eyes to, or a new set of people to impress, or figuring out
which people will rape you and which won't really is a crisis in the
seventeen years you've been on the planet. You'll try to find solace
in drinking and smoking weed. It'll be okay, I promise you that.
You'll live through that and it helps you keep the panic at bay most
days. Just come over here and hug me though, because I'm going to
lose you to sex. You're going to sleep with everyone and everybody.
You'll do this because you were raped at 15 and had you not
cooperated, you are pretty sure you would have been at 16 in the
middle of Atlanta Georgia. You want to keep the monsters away and
prove to yourself that sex is good. You are going to go on a
rampage. Please don't do this. There are other ways to heal. We
will never to this day have one emotional feeling during sex. You
will associate it with feeling good, but it will never mean anything
to you if you do this. You can't hear me, can you?
Your head is still chock
full of brains and you make every honor roll and all straight A's.
You are generally high when you do this. I don't know what I could
have done if I'd put effort into myself. Your heartbreaks and
worries are tossed aside when you talk about them because your
parents can tell you what real problems are. If you don't talk about
your problems, you are a slut and being rebellious. If you do talk
about them, you are blowing things out of proportion, or shouldn't be
doing what you are doing anyway. You can't win when it comes to
looking for help. Don't worry about that, you grow up to take
everyone seriously, even small children. Kids adore you because you
don't treat them like kids. You know how real their problems are,
and you accept it. You're getting some great life skills.
You are finally standing up
for yourself. The last time your mother hit you was in Alcoa. You
made damn sure that the last time was the last time. It stopped that
day. Now you are taking your new found power a little far, but it's
certain no one pushes you around anymore. Hang on to that, you'll
need it for a while. Please take care of yourself. You are going to
have a baby soon. She will be the brightest star in your life and
the best thing you ever accomplish. You will be a great mother, and
it's because of the path you've been on. This is hard right now, but
you are going to turn out just fine. You don't know true love now.
You won't know it at twenty. You might think you've found it at 34,
I'll have to let you know. I love you. I'll hold your hand through
all of this. Trust me, I won't let us down.”
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