deserve to be so miserable.
But misery isn’t something you have to earn. Misery is misery. It just is. I know what’s going on inside of you, and…I wish I could say that you’re not seeing things clearly, and that the world will be shiny and wonderful when you’re grown up, but I can’t, because it won’t.
I can, however, offer hope.
In a few years, with the help of a liberal college staffed by amazing teachers, you’re going to realize it’s your society that’s sick and twisted, not you. You’re going to break free of the conditioning of your conservative, Southern Baptist childhood and declare yourself a feminist, an atheist (later an agnostic), and an independent. You’re going to stop starving yourself to be “pretty;” you’re going to teach yoga and volunteer and realize that parts of your spiritual upbringing were dead on—it is a blessing to serve others, and far better to give than to receive.
And the seeds for a self-destruction-free future are already being sown right here, right now , in the midst of all the craziness, and being protected by the most amazing support group you’ll ever have, a fierce gang of guardians you completely take for granted. Because surely everyone has friends like these. Friends who stand up for you and to you and call you on your bullshit. Friends who stay up late talking about religion, politics, love, pain, and what it means to be human. Friends who enjoy the good times together, and get each other through tough times, too. Friends who drink hard but love harder; who stand together and protect each other and refuse to ever leave a friend behind.
Your friends save your life every day. Not only by taking care of you when you do stupid things, but by letting you take care of them. They’re teaching you how to love and play and think for yourself. They’re teaching you that kinship isn’t only forged by blood. Slowly but surely, through the love they give, they’re making up for all the luck you lack.
But who needs luck when you have such very good friends?
Years will pass and you’ll fall out of touch with most of these girls, but you’ll never forget them, and you’ll wish every day that you could go back and give each one a tight hug and a big thank you.
So why don’t you go do that now? Tell them it’s from both of us.
Stacey Jay is the author of Juliet Immortal (2011) and Romeo Redeemed (2012) as well as several other books for young adults. She lives in Sonoma County, California, with her husband and two boys. Visit StaceyJay.com .
SEIZURES
Carrie Jones
Dear Teen Me,
Okay, a lot of people write about their health problems. And I get that. I mean, a lot of people like to talk about their broken bones and gastrointestinal issues, and whatever. That’s fine. During flu season, people will go into graphic details about how they puked every two minutes. They’ll even revel in details about the consistency of their vomit—and trust me, whether it was acidic or chunky, it was definitely gross.
You’ve never been one of those people, though. It’s not that you think sickness shows some kind of bodily or spiritual weakness or something like that. You just think it’s boring. And as far as you’re concerned, there’s nothing worse than being boring.
So when you were super little and broke your ankle playing tag at Debbie Muir’s house, you didn’t talk about it. And when you were in second grade and you broke your front tooth, you didn’t talk about that either. You even kept your chronic bronchitis a secret.
And now?
I guess the older you—that is to say, me—is sticking to the plan. Because writing isn’t talking, technically speaking. But I still feel this weird sort of apprehension, of nervousness. A little voice inside my head keeps telling me, “Sickness is boring. Tell a joke, Carrie. Tell a joke.”
But seizure jokes are terrible, evil things. These are from Epilepsy.com :
Do you know what to do if someone has a seizure in
But misery isn’t something you have to earn. Misery is misery. It just is. I know what’s going on inside of you, and…I wish I could say that you’re not seeing things clearly, and that the world will be shiny and wonderful when you’re grown up, but I can’t, because it won’t.
I can, however, offer hope.
In a few years, with the help of a liberal college staffed by amazing teachers, you’re going to realize it’s your society that’s sick and twisted, not you. You’re going to break free of the conditioning of your conservative, Southern Baptist childhood and declare yourself a feminist, an atheist (later an agnostic), and an independent. You’re going to stop starving yourself to be “pretty;” you’re going to teach yoga and volunteer and realize that parts of your spiritual upbringing were dead on—it is a blessing to serve others, and far better to give than to receive.
And the seeds for a self-destruction-free future are already being sown right here, right now , in the midst of all the craziness, and being protected by the most amazing support group you’ll ever have, a fierce gang of guardians you completely take for granted. Because surely everyone has friends like these. Friends who stand up for you and to you and call you on your bullshit. Friends who stay up late talking about religion, politics, love, pain, and what it means to be human. Friends who enjoy the good times together, and get each other through tough times, too. Friends who drink hard but love harder; who stand together and protect each other and refuse to ever leave a friend behind.
Your friends save your life every day. Not only by taking care of you when you do stupid things, but by letting you take care of them. They’re teaching you how to love and play and think for yourself. They’re teaching you that kinship isn’t only forged by blood. Slowly but surely, through the love they give, they’re making up for all the luck you lack.
But who needs luck when you have such very good friends?
Years will pass and you’ll fall out of touch with most of these girls, but you’ll never forget them, and you’ll wish every day that you could go back and give each one a tight hug and a big thank you.
So why don’t you go do that now? Tell them it’s from both of us.
Stacey Jay is the author of Juliet Immortal (2011) and Romeo Redeemed (2012) as well as several other books for young adults. She lives in Sonoma County, California, with her husband and two boys. Visit StaceyJay.com .
SEIZURES
Carrie Jones
Dear Teen Me,
Okay, a lot of people write about their health problems. And I get that. I mean, a lot of people like to talk about their broken bones and gastrointestinal issues, and whatever. That’s fine. During flu season, people will go into graphic details about how they puked every two minutes. They’ll even revel in details about the consistency of their vomit—and trust me, whether it was acidic or chunky, it was definitely gross.
You’ve never been one of those people, though. It’s not that you think sickness shows some kind of bodily or spiritual weakness or something like that. You just think it’s boring. And as far as you’re concerned, there’s nothing worse than being boring.
So when you were super little and broke your ankle playing tag at Debbie Muir’s house, you didn’t talk about it. And when you were in second grade and you broke your front tooth, you didn’t talk about that either. You even kept your chronic bronchitis a secret.
And now?
I guess the older you—that is to say, me—is sticking to the plan. Because writing isn’t talking, technically speaking. But I still feel this weird sort of apprehension, of nervousness. A little voice inside my head keeps telling me, “Sickness is boring. Tell a joke, Carrie. Tell a joke.”
But seizure jokes are terrible, evil things. These are from Epilepsy.com :
Do you know what to do if someone has a seizure in
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