Dear eleven year old Briauna,
Sixth grade will be a long year for you; don't worry, it ends.
You are going to be tempted
to cut off all your hair to look like
Alice from Twilight. DON'T.
You'll regret it the day later,
and the only thing more ******
than making a horrible decision,
is making a horrible decision
because others tell you to. Besides,
you'll soon learn how important
your individuality is. After you start
to change, your friends won't
feel like home anymore,
but don't stress over this, there are
many other apartments that
you have never explored.
You'll find one that fits
your needs better anyway.
I remember this as the divorce year.
The year you learn that family units
are hard to split evenly. The time
you finally realize how it feels
to be a magician's assistant,
being sawed in half until there are two
of you. You will try to make sure
mom and dad get an equal piece
when this happens... They won't.
Mom needs your ear and
dad your shoulder. Let mom rant.
Let dad cry oceans over mom,
I promise it will make you an expert
at sailing through the waves.
The year depression creeps in
like smoke under a doorway
in a house fire - slowly rising up,
taking over the space, quickly
eliminating your ability to breathe.
The fire extinguisher is found
years down the road, but for now
just let the water pour from your eyes,
it will diminish the flames.
Kate Moss, unfortunately,
becomes your idol this year.
Boys take the backseat to body image.
Your diet will consist of apples
and carrots, and you will assure yourself that THIS is what being
a teenage girl is.
THIS IS NOT WHAT BEING A
TEENAGE GIRL IS.
Teenage girls are sleepovers and
gossip and impossible daydreams
made possible through extreme ambition. Teenage girls
are ******* kickass warriors,
but they are also sensitive and fragile.
They often need reassurances;
someone to remind them that
their body is just the casing that protects the essence of their soul,
someone to appreciate the beauty
that they produce, someone to say
**** diamonds, food is
a girls best friend, no matter how
much our weight obsessed culture
try's to convince you otherwise.
This has so far been your best year.
Treasure it. This year you'll meet a boy
who reminds you to be unapologetically yourself.
When you kiss him for the first time,
don't apologize after. He hates
the way you take blame for all of
the world's problems. He will soon
slip through your fingers so quickly
that you won't be able to tell if
he was even real or simply
a daydream that you wanted so badly,
you went along with the delusion.
Other boys will come and go,
but he will always return. Let him.
This is the year you let your depression
run rampant, spewing destruction
on anything that could possibly
bring you joy. You'll turn
to alcohol and razors, anything
to numb the constant assault
from your brain. Right before your
seventeenth birthday, you will
swallow a bottle of antidepressants
you kept hidden in your sock drawer,
but it won't **** you.
Instead it will empower you.
You will use your survival to promote recovery. You will take your passion
and throw it into poetry.
In fact, as I write this poem,
you are now four months clean.
Dear twenty-five year old Briauna,
I imagine you surrounded by beauty. Beautiful cities, beautiful people,
beautiful talents. It comforts me
to remember that you and I
may be in different places
right now, but we're on the same path.
The happiness you currently feel,
I will eventually feel too.
Thanks for not giving up on us.
I'm really excited to meet you.