#the ally coalition

Dear 15-year-old Erin,

Things are about to get so awesome for you. I know things are pretty tough right now, and you’re dealing with depression, and feeling like you don’t really fit in completely, anywhere. I know you feel like the odd man out, and like maybe the people around you don’t understand you. You don’t feel like you’ll ever find friends that accept everything about you. You feel a bit constrained by your town, and the people in it, and you think that’s how the whole world is. You feel like things are dark, and maybe they’ll stay that way.

I’m so very, very happy to tell you that that’s not the truth. You’re just a short while away from moving away from that town, and away from the small-mindedness and bigotry in it. You know how you think support of LGBT issues must consist of grudging acceptance, because that’s all you’re really seeing? That’s not at all what the larger world holds. You’re about to find a place full of people as passionate as you are about LGBT rights. Remember how you went to a Gay Straight Alliance meeting, and there were just 3 or 4 people, and you thought, “Well, that’s okay. At least there are a few people who believe in this.”? There are *hundreds* of people who believe in it – just in your new school.

And you know how it feels like you can’t be a nerd and a gay rights activist? How you feel like you’re the only one? You are going to meet so many more. You’re going to meet people who spend their life making sure LGBT voices are heard in comics. You’re going to meet people who started a publishing company just for publishing the comics of LGBT writers, and publishing LGBT stories. You’re going to meet other nerds who feel as passionately as you do about LGBT issues, and want to talk to you about it for hours. You are going to fit in.

And you are going to stand out! You are going to finally realize that you honestly don’t care if people look at you strangely. You’re going to find a confidence you didn’t know you could. You’re going to *love* yourself, and you’re going to find people who love you, too. People who love you for everything you are, and who don’t only like the happy parts, or the calm parts, or the parts that aren’t making waves. You are going to find people who love your nerdiness, and your happiness, and your excitement, and your sad days, and your talking, and your quiet times. There are people out there, right now, who are just waiting for you to be confident enough in yourself to say, “I won’t change for anyone. This is who I am!” And they will find joy in your joy, and will help you through your depression.

And speaking of depression – that will get better, too. I’m not saying every day will be a picnic, but while you can’t necessarily see the end, right now, and it feels like maybe you’ll feel this way the rest of your life – have hope, because the next time it won’t feel so dark. The next time you’ll know it will eventually pass, and the next time you will find the tools, and the friends, to help you battle back. And the words! You will one day find the words to speak up, and to reach out for help. And help will be there, reaching back.

There are going to be some hard times, and things will look bleak for a while. But through it all, you are going to be there for you, and soon, you will discover that that’s enough. You are going to find such strength, and such confidence, and such sense of self. You don’t realize it quite yet, but you are amazing, and you are awesome, and you can move mountains, and you can change minds. You are going to make people think before they say things like “that’s so gay,” and you’re going to do it with love. You’re going to speak up when you see something you don’t agree with – both academically and morally – and you will be heard. Not always, and not by everyone, but when it counts. And you won’t dwell on the failures, and you will find strength in the successes, and you will always, always keep moving forward.

So although I know you aren’t capable of feeling it – or feeling much of anything, just now – know that there is hope. There is hope, and there is joy, and there is success, and there is passion, and there is life. And in every sense of the word, you will live it.

Sincerely,

Erin

                             There are years that ask questions
and years that answer.
                                                            —Zora Neale Hurston

It is possible to be addicted to wanting to die: this is your
diagnosis, more or less—not an alcoholic like half your family, not a
heroin addict or gambler like your uncles, but a death-wish addict.
Remember this: after you crushed and swallowed the bottle of Lamictal,
after the vomiting started, after you tried to stand and failed, you
screamed like a banshee against the numbness overtaking you. You
screamed for help, for life. There will always be a part of you that
wants to survive that is smarter than the part of you that doesn’t.
It’s okay to feel like a wreck today. To curse and bless the
world—your body—that has kept you. To argue with hospital staff
members who insist you stay in the psych ward. Say you can’t miss
work. Say you don’t have the money or time. Say you didn’t mean it,
that it was impulsive, a mistake. It’s okay to clutch the small
stuffed dog your best friend has brought harder than you’ve clutched
anything since childhood. Say your body feels like a thousand
hangovers. Say you can’t eat anything but the canned fruit and water.
Refuse to get out of bed for group therapy. Out of some weird magic of
the universe, you will have plenty of days to do the work you so
desperately need to do, to learn new answers to voice inside you that
says you are unworthy of life.

I have a story for you that you won’t believe: a year from now, the
sky will start to not wake up in time for your alarm clock and you
still won’t quite know if you want to be a professor or not and you
will be a little short for cash and you will break a kind man’s heart
and feel a little like a villain and you will live alone and there
will be a magnificent sweetness to the way you say yes to simple
things, a dinner date at Saigon Kitchen, pumpkin carving with friends
you haven’t even met yet, meetings with students about comma rules or
Virginia Woolf, a new neighbor who laughs with his whole body, a woman
you can’t stop kissing, eating nine kinds of pie. There
will be a morning drinking coffee on a lover’s porch where you’ll
think, This is happiness. There will be a night arguing kindly with
friends until 4 am about language politics over gin-and-tonics and
fried rice and you’ll think, This is happiness. And there will be
anxiety attacks before teaching. A man who follows you home from a bar
and frightens you out of your body for weeks. An ex-roommate who hurts
you in ways you didn’t know you could be hurt. There will be weeks
when you eat nothing but delivery, buy new underwear instead of doing
laundry, sleep in your day clothes, shower so many times a day that
your skin starts to peel. And there will be days (many) that you think
of killing yourself and don’t. What I am trying to say is that getting
over this suicide won’t be easy, but some days it might be beautiful.
What I am trying to say is that no matter how impossible recovery
seems, there’s a life that still wants you in it. What I’m trying to
say is stay here with me.

Love,

Stevie

Dear 18-year-old self,

You are getting ready to attend a top-tier university, and popular opinion has led you to believe it will be the best time of your life.

In accordance with collegiate tradition, let me start by giving you the SparkNotes version. I enrolled in the school of art. I did not join a sorority. I did not gain the freshman fifteen. I liked all of my roommates except for one. I spent a semester abroad in Holland. I tried majoring in Graphic Design—I was kicked out of the program. I took a fifth year and switched to Photography. I fell in love. I made an installation in protest of corporate power for my senior thesis. I graduated with the Class of 2014.

Now for the part you really need to know. Unfortunately, I have to show you rock bottom before you can appreciate the happy ending.

I had no doubt that I was stupid. How else could someone try so hard and accomplish so little? I spent the vast majority of my time studying and still could not keep up with my homework. Many of my professors showed resentment at what they perceived to be indifference. I internalized much of what they said to me.

You don’t belong here.

You’re fucking up.

Your contributions are irrelevant.

You are incapable of learning.

It would be in your best interest to drop out.

Eventually I realized that something was wrong, but I couldn’t articulate what it was. My thoughts became increasingly contorted. Starting around sophomore year, there were times when I lost control over my body. I couldn’t breathe. Everything went out of focus. I couldn’t stop my heart from pounding or my hands from shaking. I became overwhelmed with the thought that I was an embarrassment to everyone who knew me. My whole existence felt like a cruel joke. Later on I learned these were panic attacks, but at the time I thought for sure I was going insane. I was too afraid to tell anyone.

During my fifth year, I finally sought professional help from a neuropsychologist by the name of Dr. Russell. He confirmed what my family doctor had already guessed at—that I have Attention Deficit Hyperactive Disorder—and recommended further evaluation. Thus began a series of appointments where I underwent extensive testing designed to assess my mental state and capacity. The tests produced approximately 50 pages of analysis. These are the things that stood out:

(1) In addition to ADHD, I also have a panic disorder and chronic depression.

(2) My processing speed is in the fourteenth percentile, which is practically unheard of at the school I attended. I read at approximately half the rate of most people my age.

(3) I’m exceptionally intelligent.

After going over the results, Dr. Russell said, “Despite your academic struggles, it is my professional opinion that you have the ability to be a remarkable candidate in any field you choose.”

You have a different way of learning. It does not mean you are stupid or less capable than others. It just means you need a little help. Do not let anyone make you feel like you don’t deserve to be where you are.

Love,

Alison

Dear younger me.

I want to tell you to take a deep breath. I know you feel like the world is crashing down on you each time you step outside your safe zone. I know you don’t trust people, least of all yourself not to hurt you. I know that you find it hard to fit in your own body, and I know you find it hard to eat, and to love, and to breathe. I know you feel like a freak because you are the only girl in the neighborhood who’s not bringing home boyfriends. I know that is why you decided to get a boyfriend. And I know that you will feel even worse by then because you don’t know why you can’t love him.

And one day soon you are going to take a giant leap towards the end of this life. You are going to feel scared, and lost, and you will feel like you just don’t know how to xist anymore. You will act upon it, but your body will not let your mind win.
Thankfully.

Because -  let me tell you - you will get better. You are going to stand up to your eating disorder, and your depression, and your fear, and you are going to be the champion. You will come out of the closet, and the only person who is going to treat you differently is yourself. You are going to be kinder to yourself. You are going to grow, and become stronger. You are going to meet a lot of girls, and some of them you are going to love. And one day you will look into the eyes of the most beautiful woman on earth, and she will look back into your eyes and her gaze will make you realize that you could - maybe - also let yourself be loved. Yes, you are going to remember what it felt like being weak with starvation and self loathing, but you will
only feel a minimal urge to relapse and that is okay because you can beat that. You are strong now. And on this day, when she looks into your eyes, you will be full. You will be invincible. You will be unstoppable. You will be whole. You will not only kiss her, but you will let her kiss you. You will let her take a swim in your ocean, and smile as you realize that she’s not drowning in your shadows.

So take a deep breath. Hang in there. You are going to conquer this.

Love

- T

    Dear eleven-year old self,
    You are never going to be “not sick”. You are never going to be able to walk into a room and not feel like everyone is staring at you and the room is shrinking. Your skin is never going to stop feeling like it’s on fire every time someone puts their hands on you. you are never going to be able to get out of bed and face the day every single morning.
    You need to know that that’s okay. Every single one of those things, it’s okay. It’s okay to be an introvert (because honestly, being an introvert is the only way you’ll be able to survive most days), but don’t cut people out of your life. You’ll regret that. It’s okay to stay in bed all day sometimes because sometimes, the world is a harsh place and your bed is the only comfort. It’s okay to take a mental health day, because they’re just as important as a sick day (don’t listen to what anyone else tells you). It’s okay to be anxious, to feel the anxiety ripping you apart some days- but please, remember that you can breathe. Remember that the panic attack doesn’t last forever. Remember that you can breathe. Please breathe.
    You were only eight years old the first time you thought of hurting yourself. You were nine when you did it. You were ten when you realized how grey the world felt, how empty everything seemed. You were eleven when you heard the words “depression”. “Clinical”. “Anxiety”. “Bipolar”. “Borderline”. When you heard those things, you ran. Please, please don’t run. If you run, you won’t stop for eight years and you’ll wind up at your job having a complete break down in the middle of a lunch rush because everything finally caught up to you. You won’t get fired, but you’ll quit because nobody can stop staring at you after that. You’ll say it was because you didn’t like your manager.
    Don’t hesitate to ask for help. Trust me. It’s the best thing you’ll ever give yourself. It’ll feel like the weight of the world is coming off your shoulders and you won’t feel like there’s an anvil resting on your ribcage anymore. Don’t let it take you eight years of panic attacks, eight years of sobbing into a pillow, eight years of chatter, eight years of hiding in the dark, eight years of feeling that there’s something fundamentally wrong with you.
    There is nothing wrong with you.

Dear High School Self,

When you ask the youth minister if your gay friend is going to hell, he will say yes.

When your boyfriend tells you he wouldn’t be with you if you didn’t love the same god, leave him.

When the fissure between what you believe and what your ministry is telling you grows too wide, hold on to what you believe. It will be hard to pull yourself back on to stable ground when your fingers are slipping on the gravel, but you’ve always held on to your convictions.

When you realize the god you have invested so much in is flawed, understand it is his followers that are flawed.

When you lose the community you gave your heart to, you will find another. You will find a home with the eccentrics. Everyone you meet will be another character for your novel. You will find a home with the artists and the lovers—the ones that don’t scoff when you tell them your dreams of being a writer.

When you discover that your soul is boundless, remember that everyone else’s souls are boundless too. Remember that boundless souls have many soulmates. You will find a soulmate in your best friend, in your heartbreak, in your greatest love. You will never meet all of them but make it your goal to meet them all anyway—you’ve always been good at meeting unattainable goals.

When you are asked if you believe in god at the age of 23, you still won’t know how to answer.

Love,

Your 23-year-old self.

P.S.—Don’t give Zack a second chance. Or a third or fourth or… you get the idea. Same with Jeff. Kelsey and Brett really will get married, but I don’t know if you’ll be at the wedding. The girl named Shai with the tattoos and sex advice will change your life. So will the boy you meet on your twenty-third birthday.

P.P.S.—You are so beautiful.

Dear 13-Year-Old Me:

I’m proud of you. At the young age of 13 you knew who you were and were
unapologetically unique and full of character. Your sense of fashion was impeccable. Cargo shorts? Linen? Bucket hats? Fuck yes. Your loving demeanor and compassion for others made the world orbit you. Don’t get cocky just yet – the next few years will be slightly cringe-worthy for both of us. Brace yourself. High school will knock you off your feet a bit. Your newly found impressionable nature doesn’t lead you down the most positive path, but you don’t lose yourself completely.

I want to give you a few words of advice that may help you navigate your upcoming hurdles: Being safe has protected you thus far, but also limited you greatly. Don’t be afraid to make uncertain leaps of faith while on shaky ground. Embrace your differences and expose your flaws. Your non-traditional perspective and peculiar sense of humor – all of the things that made you feel alienated – will come in handy later down the road. Know this: As content as you are finding comfort in solitude, there are pleasant surprises to be found in friendship. Don’t be too quick to trust others’ opinions for what’s right for you (even your parents’) - that little voice in your head is there for a reason. Trust it. And finally, be slow to speak and let your actions be your voice.

The road may begin to appear unmanageable at times, but let me assure you it isn’t. The highs will make up for the lows if you just stay with us. Your late teens might scare you, but you are resilient. Throughout those turbulent years of addiction know that somewhere underneath all of that haze you’re still alive. You’re still you. The drugs will wear off and you will eventually regain clarity. Life will astound you day by day.

Again, I’m proud of you. I love who you’ve become and I’m so grateful that you hung in there. Pay it forward and don’t let up.

P.S. Your fashion sense is still remarkable.

Girl, embrace the silence.

Too often you remember silence in its darkest sense,

The silence of every suicide letter and every heart-felt sob,

When you curled on your floor to sleep, too broken to crawl into bed.

You remember the silence of each anti-depressant capsule sliding

Cautiously down your throat, empty promises and silent “change,”

Even as you accepted that you still wouldn’t be able to laugh with real emotion.

Silence can be ominous and overwhelming, carving scars into your flesh,

Or it can be beautiful.

It can bloom in warmth with a fragile friend,

Whose hand you hold in the moment when life feels the coldest,

When her friends don’t know why her eyes lower when they talk about boys,

And her family doesn’t know that she feels more comfortable in guy’s underwear.

And she still doesn’t understand the term “queer” let alone this emotion.

But you walk into the depths of the night’s darkness. Together.

And in the silence of chirping crickets, neither of you feel quite so alone.

Silence can fill an empty space, room, heart with a peace that transcends pain,

When your friend decides he wants to destroy himself.

And you hold him until his heart heals, kissing his tears away.

And your hands rest upon his back until his darkness is behind him,

And your empathy reaches into his chest,

And you reset your pulse to his until his racing heart steadies.

Silence can knit lives together like hands locked in unison,

Like tears washed together in a worry basin,

Like two mouths breathing softly in the same lower bunk.

And she was silent when I touched her angel kisses with my finger,

And gave her every prayer I had in my tired, weakened body,

So that hers could be strong once again.

Silence can bind chords to make the two stronger,

And as two lay together in books, bathwater, and sand to keep each other warm,

Wrapping each other in love in the heartbreak of the summer.

And her fiery hair matched her heart in the silence of those nights,

When they danced and drank in the silence of their minds,

Finding consolation in the presence of one another’s spirits.

Girl, embrace the silence.

It has been dark, but it has been bright.

and there will come a day that you will be silenced

before the most serene silence of real Love

your mouth will be shut in awe when you recognize that these silent moments

are seeds simply birthed from the tree of Everlasting Reality

a Love beyond our grasp the fullness of silence

filling voids with peace that will always be

and those moments of pain will have brought greater clarity

to bring you to your silent knees which had for years cried out for answers

and here Love stands before you, painting silence

with love-filled scars that match yours but deeper

and love-filled eyes that match your sister’s but bigger

and love-filled tears that match your mother’s but fiercer

and Love will look on all the world and bring us to beautiful silence

Girl, embrace the silence.

Dear High School Karen,

It’s going to be okay. I know, that’s so trite that it almost holds no meaning. You like to think of yourself as a good writer, so I imagine you’re annoyed that I’m speaking in clichés. I mean it though, that pain will end.

 I still remember how it feels to truly believe that I’m fundamentally unlikeable. Your friendships drifted away into the woodwork. It happened so quickly that you missed and blinked the fall out. It happened so slowly that you’re still not sure whether or not they’re truly gone. I know. You write passive aggressive poetry and publish it in the school’s literary magazine. They’re all on the board and you’re not sure whether or not they notice that you are too. You’re physically present though they never seem to quite acknowledge you.

I know that sometimes the pain gets so unbearable that it cannot be contained in your mind alone. It’s like your entire being is hurting. I know that sometimes the only way to make the pain stop was to break your skin, if only just a little bit. It’s like once the pain was released, once it was made physical, you could go on with existing. The safety pin you kept by your bed became your lifeline.

 It was hard to feel so undesirable. Nobody liked you as a friend, so why would anyone ever love you? You wondered which was worse: your body or your personality. You thought you’d never be pretty you’d never be skinny you’d never be loved you’d never be appreciated you’d always be alone. This applied both platonically and romantically.

 Dear High School Karen, you are not alone. You are so loved, I promise. You’ll get to college and realize that people vary much more than they did at your high school. You will find some people who genuinely enjoy your company. They’ll seek you out and want to be around you. You’ll take and laugh and they’ll call you funny. It won’t be the way it used to be, where you wouldn’t intend to be funny and people would laugh and you thought you’d realized your only purpose in life was to act as the punch line. They will actually value you.

 You’ll never find a boy to love you but it turns out that’s okay. You’ll join the rugby team and realize that you have other options to explore. You’re going to find yourself caught in a reverie of someone. You’ll drunkenly kiss her on your 20^th birthday and she’ll kiss you back. You both decide you never want to stop.

 She’ll call you beautiful and at first you won’t believe her. Why would you? You’ve spent years being indirectly told otherwise. But every time she looks at you there’s adoration in her eyes. “You’re beautiful,” she says. “You’re incredible.” She’ll seem so genuine, so earnest, that eventually you’ll start to believe her. You’ll find a home in her arms, your head burrowed in the crook of her neck. It’s there you’ll start to believe you’re beautiful. It’s there you’ll start to believe you’re loveable. It’s there you’ll learn not to hate yourself.

Dear High School Karen, one day it almost won’t hurt anymore. One day you’ll believe that you’re worth something and that you’re fundamentally likeable. One day, it will be okay.

Love,

College Karen

Dear 11 year old Ericka,

What happened to you wasn’t ok. It wasn’t silly, or stupid, or ridiculous, or embarrassing. It was abusive. It was degrading and exploitive and traumatic. It was not your fault. Let me remind you that you are in 6th grade. You watch Lizzie McGuire religiously every Friday “night” at 7:30pm. You get excited on those rare occasions that you are allowed to leave the building to get pizza at Marco Polo or your advisor takes you for ice cream at Ciao Bella. You cannot make consensual sexual decisions. You cannot possibly understand the complexity of sexual activity. You are young and stupid in the way that every child should be young and stupid. You were taken advantage of in a way that no child should be.

I know you think it has to be a secret. That telling means admitting fault. It is ok to tell. I know you think that if you tell you won’t have friends. That they will tell you to “suck it up,” or that it wasn’t “that bad.” The thing is, regardless of how “bad” it looks on the outside, what happened affected you. It made you think that your self worth lies in your body, it made you
think that you should hurt yourself, isolate yourself, disappear. You can’t look at that and say it wasn’t too bad. In fact it is the exact opposite, what you are feeling is your brain and body’s way of saying “hey, this isn’t right, you aren’t ok, you need help.”

I promise you, your real friends aren’t going to run away. They will answer your calls at midnight and stay with you while you cry. They will let you fall asleep in their beds when you can’t sleep in your own. Your real friends will remind you of your strength because you are so strong.

I’m not going to lie, it will be hard. No, scratch that, at times it will be excruciatingly painful. Falling apart is easy. Falling apart can happen in an instant: the touch of a hand, the utterance of a phrase and you will shatter into a million pieces. The hard part is putting those pieces back together. Get help, because there will be days when, despite your general anxiety about dying, you will think death and non existence will feel infinitely better than facing another lonely night with nothing but your nightmares and thoughts for company. There will be days when the best you can do is get up, close the blinds and go back to bed, days when maintaining a heartbeat will seem like a huge accomplishment. It is.

You will go on to have amazing positive experiences. You will travel to foreign countries by yourself; you will cultivate healthy positive relationships, you will have days when you are truly happy. But you have to hold on. Remember the little things. The sunshine on an unseasonably warm winter day. Getting a seat on the 4 train home during a Yankee’s game, the crunch of hooves in the snow. Its going to take work and effort and trust that things can and will get better. Above all else, you have to believe that. What happened to you does not and will not define you. You are beautiful and courageous and strong. You are compassionate and resilient. You are safe. You are a survivor and I love you.

~ 23 Year Old Ericka

G’day younger me,

Today I want you to recall the story of the first time you walked hand in hand with someone. And I know that you know of whom I’m talking, because this person will not disappear from your mind for ages.

But anyway, back to the story: Can you remember the exact date of this day? I do not. And it doesn’t even matter at all. It was such a typical day in first middle-school. It was a rather warm day and the sun was shining. You and your classmates were just coming back to school from a getaway, watching a play in the city or something, and another horrible maths class was waiting for you, so you were trying to make your way back as slowly as you could (or as your caretaker allowed you to be). Your best (and only) friend at this time, Laura, was walking beside you and you were chatting about some insignificant middle-school stuff. You felt great, even if the idea of another maths class scared you a bit. Already close to the playground Laura asked curiously if she could try out something with you. You agreed so she asked your caretaker if she could leave you for a moment. And then she did the incredible! She just took your hand and led you over the street as you would be any other “normal” person in the world. “It’s working,“ was the only thing she said and smiled as you. And in this moment it occurred to you that Laura was one of the rare people who are able to see through your disability and observe you as you really are: normal and smart. Hand in hand you two walked the last meters to school. She even managed to lead you over the ramp without leaving your hand for a second. I think you felt like the happiest person in the world and you were perfectly sure that you had found a true friend!

Even with so many years passed by I can tell you that the school year Laura and you spent together was one of the most light-hearted, best and happiest times of your life. But you also know what happened after Laura moved back to Germany. Or maybe you do not already know. So let me tell you:

The deep, deep depression you tumbled in after her leaving was nothing else than the horrible first-time-lovesickness which is always the worst. Yes, darling, you may not have known but you were in love with this girl, who was so open-minded and straight-away.

And I can tell you another thing: It is perfectly alright. It’s perfectly alright not to know who you are. It’s perfectly alright not be sure about your sexuality. And it is also perfectly alright that you discovered this all only a long time after her departure. There will be other occasions to discover even more things and you will meet more people who make you feel as welcome as Laura did, it doesn’t matter if they are male or female. Just take your time and wait for it.

With the deepest affection,

Still-not-sure-and-disabled-but finally-18-year-old-and-right in this-moment-officially-outed Jenny

Dear Past-Max,

             Know this: you’re fucking cool. Listen. This is your massive ego shouting at you through time. You sit there in French class feeling so uncomfortable because you don’t know who knows That Thing and also all you can think about is how you’ll never be able to talk about dudes with That Straight Girl the way she does with That Other Straight Girl because you’re afraid of how other people will hate you. Kill this fear now. You can’t sacrifice your own mental health for the comfort level of others.

            Also: finish it. You have to drink it all. There is no other way. Throw all of your grace into the furnace and TELL THEM ALL how hella gay you are. You will be just fine.

            I want to tell you something I’ve done.

            Okay here we go – it’s freshman year of college.

            I’ve found new parts of myself through new mediums. I went to a showcase of performance ensembles on campus and auditioned for just one of them. They ultimately took me in. For the callback, I/you/we had grabbed a really stupid looking piece of wood from a pile of random shit at the first round of auditions and called it “the stake of self-actualization” … and just sort of presented it as a metaphor with some water and a piece of paper – the water being Truth (in this case, through art) and the paper being the Soul. Using this metaphor as a lens, I told them (almost) everything about me, about us. See, without the Water, your Soul cannot be pierced by the Stake. Your Soul must be softened first with truth. You have to accept it unconditionally.

             What I’m getting at is this: I came out to a rather large group of strangers! You can do it too! I didn’t tell them everything, but I told them about our darkness, laid out our shame on the table and laughed at it. They laughed with me. And it went perfectly. It was the most honest, raw and truthful thing I have ever said or done. I walked out of that room thinking “What did I just do?????” with that many question marks.

            But it’s not all pretty up here.

            Ace dies of a sudden and unforeseeable cancer. It literally just happens. You get back from spring break, he’s not barking or jumping or eating or anything, really – your mom takes him to the hospital, and she calls home trying not to cry and chokes out the words “they have to put him to sleep.” You and Dad drive over and she’s swaddling him in a blanket muttering, “I’m sorry, Acey, I’m so sorry” over and over and over again.

            Death happens. But that’s not always a bad thing. Because so will that acidic fizz in your chest, so will this dulled-down and buried version of yourself. You won’t live numb anymore, and you don’t have to now.

Love, Future-Max

Dear Fifteen Year Old Me,

    You are in for quite the year. People are going to die, which is going to feel like the end of the world. You’re going to realize that the reason things aren’t working with your boyfriend is because you like girls. But worst will be the downward spiral of depression and anxiety, when you’ll feel like you are close to ending it yourself. But when you’re at the darkest moments, I want you to think of this story I have for you.

    In 2013 you’re going to head south to college. It’s going to be scary, you’re going to think of all of the things that can go wrong, but let me tell you about this one night that is going to go very right for you. It’ll be close to midnight when you’re feeling down, sitting in your common room with two of your friends. It’ll be a night that you feel very close to hurting yourself again, but that is going to change. Your friends (remember to thank them for this) will suggest driving to the beach, even though it’s after midnight. Four of you will pile in the car and drive the ten minutes to the good beach. You’ll feel shitty until you put your feet in the water and let it wash away the problems covering you. Soon, you’ll be pantsless with your roommate, knee deep in freezing water, and your heart will be the lightest it has been in a long time. The four of you will get something to eat and you’ll be able to laugh again. When you go home you will feel like you are floating. Your sadness and anxiety will melt away, not forever, but long enough to gain perspective.

    After that, you’re going to be smart and try the antidepressants your doctor recommended, and it will be the best decision you make all year. You’re going to gain a lot of confidence in your abilities and a lot of love for yourself. In the end, though, the ocean is what will teach you to let go, to free yourself from anxiety. Things are going to get a whole lot better and I’m so glad you’re going to choose to stay and see it.

Much love,

Maddy

P.S. Attached is a picture from that night. Hold on to it and remember to let the bad things wash over you. 

Dear 12 Year Old Me,

I know you feel like the dumbest person in the entire world when you don’t get all of your spelling words right. I know your stomach ties itself in more knots than the ones on your sneakers when mom doesn’t answer her phone. I know that you feel the same way way about the girl who sits next to you in English as you do the boy who sits across from you in math, and it scares the shit out of you.

Believe me, I know all about the self loathing and isolation that you feel. I know there are days when you think, “if I died today, it wouldn’t matter”.

I am not writing this letter to tell you that the feelings you posses will go away, because they won’t. There will still be days when you will want nothing more then to stop existing, to erase every last mark you left on this planet. I am writing this letter to tell you about the wonder, and joy, and freedom that you will miss if you give up the fight to keep existing.

You will miss the day when you come marching out of closet, to the beat of the biggest bass drum. Locking all of your inhibitions back inside the prison that held you captive for so long. You will not feel the shackles of secrecy and disgust being lifted off your strong wrists.

You will never get to feel the overwhelming sense of pride when you say things like “my body, my decision” or “fuck the patriarchy”. I know you’re not allowed to swear yet, but let me tell you, there is nothing more liberating than telling your oppressor to fuck themselves.

You will never get to walk down “Queer Street W.” during 2014 World Pride. Or be introduced to a community where you can be unapologetically yourself.

You will never get to see you favorite movies, or read your favorite books, or listen to music that feels like it was written just for you. Right now you are stuck in a whirlpool of middle school conformity, I promise you soon enough you will find out who you really are. (A raging humanist that likes wearing black and making sarcastic comments.)

You will never get a cat, your best and longest relationship. You won’t be there for your best friend when she shows you the scars from the monsters that plagued her for so long. You need to stay not only for yourself, but for the people that will need your petite shoulders to rest their weary heads on.

Most of all, I want you to know that you are not alone in this world. That there are people outside of our small hometown that think your sardonic remarks are funny, not “really rude and hurtful”. Also, there are worse things in this world than a bad haircut.

Keep your head up, always do what you think is right and remember, “You are you. Now isn’t that pleasant?”

Faithfully yours,

Future You

P.S. You never do get better at spelling.

Take more pictures, younger self, cause you are gonna want a before and after, all the stuff that’s gonna happen to you. Like Jurassic and Cretaceous periods in those huge books when you were a four year old (boy), you will want a comparison, to see it stark and illustrated. The different species there. There will be no cutting yourself to see the strata. Relax, I promise that love really is just as good, better even  than the dreams you have about it before you fall asleep or while taking a lonely car ride on the night of junior prom. Everything you ever heard in those songs with your windows rolled down will be true. Now your windows are stuck down and the songs on the tape are always blasting.  

You will be so in love that very often you can hardly stand to discuss anything else, even your good job or the hot weather or home, all good things. Nothing is thisgood. Every time you see her your heart will make this sound that feels like turning inside out, like restoring it from everything that ever made it sting, not in a way that hurts, but in a way that’s significant, heavy. A way to receive all the happiness you have about you. A way to receive the most love into you, and maybe to exhale it back out.

Suddenly there is a distinct reason you are the way you are. Your body anchored to your feet anchored to the ground. Your shoulders never squarer than now, even more than the first time you came home from college, walking proudly out of the B terminal like a regular grown man. You will feel more real than the times you had whole bullets, whole addresses, books in your pockets, more real than times you have stood in front of your dad and said no, in front of your town and said no. Pocketknives in the wilderness, carving your name. At the gas station at night with Derek, driving up for no good reason. You imagine the big, booted guy pumping gas at the next truck calling you queers but you drive away. You are always driving away, and you finally do (for good), don’t worry. You are the way you are because someone will love you for it.

I know that right now you only feel like a little bit of yourself, perhaps the smallest amount possible. There are times we all rely on just the acceptable shards of us. Don’t worry, soon you’ll use the word butch a little like a crooked-smiled cuss word and a little like a prayer about yourself. I think you are kind of scared of it now, that’s ok. It’s scary to learn, to grow into yourself, but everything will be different. Accept that you are, after all, holy. Prayers used to repulse you, they seemed too easy. It does, in fact, become easier. You will start to write only really obvious poetry (you are allowed to be preemptively embarrassed by it) because things are so beautiful the way they are without the fluffy devices you learned in Misses Nielsen’s, that’s how you will know that you’re approaching your whole self, and that’s all a person can ask for. So take out the braids, laugh at yourself. You are gonna make it out fine.

Love,

Kyky

Dear Hannah,

                  Hi! It’s Hannah. I’d like to begin by saying pixie cuts are the way to go, friend. I’d only wish we learned that earlier. You lost the braces, too. Thank goodness. They didn’t suit you so well either. Basically, just wait a couple years and you’re going to be one fine looking gal. Only slightly more mature, though. I’ll give that trait another ten years or so to develop.

Not to say that life didn’t throw maturational experiences at you. Because it totally did. Rude. But, you’ve got a lot more determination and resolve than I would have expected out of a kid at your measly age of fourteen. I hear middle school is pretty rough for everyone, and you made it through that with only a few tears shed over balancing chemical equations! A+! Good work! And high school… well let’s just say you’re lucky to have your friends. Friends that you still have, surprisingly. Which reminds me: during our next life, let’s try to turn down the micromanaging, alright?

Not to go all scholarly on you, but I read this article recently where this sociologist named Brené Brown said that “perfectionism is basically a cognitive behavioral process that says if I look perfect, work perfect, and do everything perfectly, I can avoid shame, ridicule, and criticism. It’s a defense mechanism.” I wish I had someone to tell me that earlier; I wish I had someone to show me that making mistakes and screwing up a bit wouldn’t ruin me. And that all those things you did that are “so embarrassing” and “cringe-worthy” or whatever – dude, like, people don’t even notice that stuff. For the most part, if it’s not about them, they don’t care. Obviously a lot of people are interested in what you have to say, but they’re really not going to think about that one time you… Actually, I don’t even remember what you did. Which proves my point. I’m not going to say “life is about making mistakes” or something that reeks with absolutism, but it’s chill if you mess up every once and awhile. It’s good for you, I think.

You should learn from your mistakes, though. One of the things I regret most is not shaking off internalized prejudices earlier in life. Right now, young Hannah is someone who revels in the fact that she’s “not like other girls.” First of all, gross. Cut that crap while you can, dude. Lose the special snowflake complex while you still have the chance. It’s hard to wrap your head around it, but I’m telling you that by looking down upon other women and girls, you’re really only hurting yourself. It’s tough identifying as a female in this society, but the way to deal with that is not to distance yourself from the only people who know what you’re going through. It’s easy to help yourself up by pushing others down (I sound like our Mom, don’t I? Just wait a few years. The similarities get even more noticeable), but it’s just not the right way to go about things. No more shaming people for the way they dress, or how they talk, or what they do with their lives. Don’t worry about them. Worry about the people who think they can pass judgment on the way another person simply exists.

Overall, you did a pretty solid job. You’re a much better person than you think you are. I mean, I turned out alright, which means you must have done something correctly! Give yourself a pat on the back, but don’t get too excited. You’ve still got the rest of high school and college to contend with.
                  Don’t worry though. There’s a lot to look forward to. And, yes, The Strokes do eventually play a show that you can go to. Thank god.

Love,

Hannah

Dear 18 Year-Old Julia, 

I am writing to tell you a story about the first time you kiss a boy on the mouth. Yes, it does happen. I know how much you think about it. Not so much the kiss itself, but what it means that you are 18 years old and have not kissed a boy yet. I know you wake up in cobwebs of insecurity and are thoroughly convinced that your un-kissed lips are some flashing neon indicator of the fact that you are never going to find anyone who loves you. I know you think that maybe there is something wrong with you and you plant seeds of self-judgment in your belly to the point that deep breaths are weed ridden. I know you feel like you are waiting to become a normal person. So, I am here to tell you that it does happen. One night, you sit in your dorm room with a very nice boy and you listen to very nice music. Somewhere in the middle of a song you feel overwhelmed by the years you have been telling yourself that kissing a boy on the mouth is the key to being who you want to be and you blurt out something like, “If you want to you should probably kiss me now, okay?” And he kisses you. Even though he goes in for just a little kiss, you want a kiss like you have seen in every romantic comedy so you stay with your lips pressed up against his for far too long. It’s pretty weird. After he leaves, you sit on your bed contemplating the experience you thought was going to be life changing and you are overcome with a feeling of…meh. In that moment you start to realize that everything you wanted to feel was not going to come from kissing a boy, but was already inside of you hiding behind swallowed stones of other people’s normal. There is more power inside of you than could ever be created for you by another person. You start doing things to nurture this power. You become a Gender and Women’s Studies major and start saying things like, “vote with your vagina” and, “actually, gender and sexuality are social constructions.”  You surround yourself with people who could not care less who you are/are not kissing and are always there to tell you that you are a good one. There will be all kinds of people who kiss you on your lips, but I want you to know this has very little significance in defining how you practice your purpose. I know that right now this is hard to understand. I know you just want to fit into your jeans, and not be sweaty when you get to class, and be asked to a freaking dance. You are never asked to a dance, and that is okay. You are doing fine.

With Self-Love,

22 Year-Old Julia