A Series of Letters to Myself

I just turned 25. There are some pretty sweet things that I think are going to come out of that, and I'm working on starting a dedicated project for my 25th year. (Shut up, Allison, I know I don't do any work on my current blog projects as it. You are cordially invited to shampoo my crotch.). In the meantime, I'm been thinking about the things I would say to myself at each age. I'll probably expand the one to my 20-year-old self and send it here (and would encourage you to do the same). In the meantime, here's this:

A Letter To My Five-Year Old Self:

Dear very-small Jenny --

One day, your psychiatrist will ask you how long you've been a perfectionist. Right now, luckily, you know nothing about psychiatrists. And you don't realize you're a perfectionist. Don't cry when you don't get it 100%. You're fantastic anyway.

Find something active that you love to do, and keep doing it. One day, you will regret that you didn't. I know that Mama and Daddy don't have enough money for dance lessons, but they'll let you take them when you're 17 (and guess what! you'll be taking them with your sister! you're going to have one of those too! and she'll be everything you ever wanted in a sister, I promise).

When you're older, your favorite memories of the trailer will take place outside, in the yard. I know that it sucks that you never win Grasshopper Contests because you're too scared to pick up the biggest ones. And the junebugs that you captured and tried to feed blackberries always escaped and felt like failures. But the fact that you did these things at all will wind happiness into your heart forever.

Smile hard now, kiddo. It gets much harder later.

A Letter To My Ten-Year Old Self:

Dear lost Fifth-Grade Jenny:

Your life totally sucks right now. I wish it weren't the case, but it's true. This will be one of the worst years ever -- but you'll get through it. I promise.

Right now, you're figuring out that the world isn't the bright sunshine-y place you always thought it was. The world is scary, I know. People kill other people. Someday you will die. All of this concerns you deeply. What you don't know is that adults think about these things too--it's all part of growing up. Yes, some people kill people. But many more people give up all they have to help people. And someday, you will die. But before that, you will live. That is the important part.

Also, right now is the first time that people have ever been mean to you because you are intelligent. People are intimidated by intelligence, and some people will translate that intimidation into unjust meanness. There is only one way to combat people who think you think you are better than them: know that you are not better than them. Intelligence is not a free pass to insult people who are less conventionally smart. You can learn something from everyone. Intelligence in a vacuum is useless--but intelligence coupled with niceness is rare and beautiful. Strive, always, for the latter.

And it's ok that some of your best friends are characters in books. Books will always help you make sense of things, even when your own life seems so senseless. And don't worry that everyone has read A Wrinkle In Time and you haven't. You'll read it when you're 14, and it will be the perfect time.

A Letter To My Fifteen-Year Old Self:

Hey you --

Weird and magical changes are happening. That sounds corny, like the beginning of some 1950s menstruation video. But, by this point, you're sarcastic enough to pick up on that. You're really starting to come into your sense of humor. One day, your laughter and presence will fill a room when you really want it to. There is a certain undelicate power in humor, and you are learning how to wield. Someday, people will say that you act much more like a boy than a girl, and they mean that you joke and laugh like a boy. There is something beautiful there. Your humor will carry you through everything. Let it keep blossoming, and don't listen to the angry women who frown at your belly laughs in restaurants.

This is the first point in your life where your friends will start to be more important to you than your family. The first point where your friends will start to act like family. This is a turning point. Family has always been just one thing to you, and now it will splinter into a thousand pieces. And all of those pieces will grow up out of the ground. There are so many people who will make you feel like you belong. Feel grateful. Not everyone has this.

Anyway, shit's about to get crazy. You're about to make friends with some unconventionally loving people. They'll drive you around in cars at night, too fast on a night that's too cold, and they'll wrap you up in blankets as they hit mailboxes with baseball bats. This is not a proud moment in your life. I want to tell you to not get in the car. But, here's the thing: without that moment, there would be a piece in my heart missing. It's the memory of being loved and taken care of in that weird wild way. And I'm not sure I'm willing to give that up. Not yet. Ask me again when I'm 45 or 50. I may have changed my mind by then.

You're so worried, right now. You're worried that no one will ever kiss you or hold your hand. You are worried that no one will ever want to have sex with you. You are assured of your own unattractiveness. I need you to know that the sexiest thing a woman ever has is confidence. You'll get some along the way. You're about to get a boyfriend, and he'll be so sweet and loving. You won't kiss until long after you've stopped dating. But it's ok. You're taking your own path to your acceptance of your body. And when you land, you'll have a better self-esteem than most. I don't know what combination of good fortune will take you there. But you'll get there.

And next year, you're going to meet the most wonderful and sweet boy. Please try hard not to break his heart. You love him, you asshole. Don't spend so much time fighting it. Let him in, let him hold your heart in his hands. He'll be exceptionally good at it. Love him back with the same force that he's loving you. Don't question it. He's the boy for you.

PS: In the meantime, you kiss lots of boys. Eventually, you have lots of sex. Even if I can manage to subvert the tragedy of your early twenties, you'll still have lots of sex. Good sex, too (most of it. Not all. You're not superwoman, after all). Be excited!

A Letter To My Twenty-Year Old Self:

My dearest hopelessly lost self--

There's a hole in your heart. You can feel its gravity, but you haven't yet deciphered it. You're dancing around the edge. You are about to fall in.

There's something worse than depression, although the depression is bad. And I know you're trying to get help. No one is trying that hard to help you now. They think you're overreacting. They don't know what you know.

Listen to me. Don't listen to anyone else. For the first time in your life, your parents don't know what's best for you. Everyone reaches this point, the place where their experiences go out of the range of those of their parents. It's part of growing up. Listen to me. I'm the one who knows.

Take the goddamned test. I know that you don't feel sad anymore. And I know that people tell you that mental illness means you can't have children, and that scares you. But take the test.

Because you know what? Not taking the test doesn't mean that you don't have a mental illness. It means that you do have one, and you don't know about it. You are undiagnosed and dangling precipitously on the edge of danger. Go to the testing psychiatrist. You'll meet him later anyway, so you might as well go on now. He will charm you, with his description of vegetable soup as "invigorating" and the way he gains your trust by complimenting your handwriting. And he will tell you how to get help. You don't have to fuck up as bad as I did. I highly do not recommend it.

In the horizon, your life is still stressful--this will not end--but you will learn how to find it beautiful too. The meds won't ruin your perception of life, art, literature or beauty. And you are about to meet some people who understand you like you didn't think was possible.

So, enjoy the time that Joey spends playing video games. Don't get mad about such a stupid thing as that. Read books while he does it. Or take some naps. Don't get all bent out of shape over such dumb things.

And when you go to medical school (spoiler alert: you achieve your dreams of entering an MD/PhD program! go you!), introduce yourself to that tall boy in your program at orientation.

And when you go to grad school, don't be so judgmental. You can never guess who your best friend is going to be. But then again, I guess that's true for all of life.

Love, your twenty-five year old me.