Tag Archives: lying

And girl, you're going so far.

Just to be clear, I am 16 or 17 here. Not 13. I may've burned all those photos.

Dear thirteen-year-old Me,

Thursday night I knocked on Brooke’s door and just started crying. And not the wiping-a-few-stray-tears-away kind, either. I’m talking full-on can’t speak crying.

Some things, my dear, will never change.

Brooke told me something pretty radical, something I still don’t quite believe, to make me feel better. She said I’d been through a lot more than most of the girls in this town. Like the two standing outside my neighbor’s house Saturday night, shrieking, the green strobe lights pulsating into our street.

She told me that and I shook my head, because of course it wasn’t true. The more I see of the world, the more the scale tips toward heartbreak. There’s just a sea full of brokenness rolling between Us and Them.

Kellie’s challenge made me think of the thirteen-year-old girl locked deep inside of me, still reeling from the pain she put herself through.

I know you’re awkward. And I mean, everyone says that when they’re thirteen, but it’s about sixteen times truer for you. I don’t know how you got out of bed at six in the morning and watched Fresh Prince reruns with syrup-drowned waffles and didn’t just want to go comatose.

By then, though, you’d already sworn off school for once. You figured you might as well go back again. I know. I understand.

You lied about a lot of things. I know you didn’t want to, but you felt like you had to. And that’s true for a lot of us, but sooner or later the truth has to free you. I think, eventually, you learned that. You lied about things that, seven years later, you cannot even dare to speak out loud. That’s how ashamed you are.

You lied about things you’re unable to write about; and that’s a big deal, because let me tell you that all your little stunts, all your little mishaps will find themselves again on the page. Even the ones that ended you in hospital beds. Even the ones that threatened, at times, to yank your bedcovers off you and take you right from this earth.

Don’t lie so much for so long, OK?

It’ll be eight years in December, but I can still see you standing barefoot on that cold blue tile floor, sure that something bad was about to happen. You didn’t know it already happened. You didn’t know that it could take three days to find the right kind of tears for a funeral you never anticipated. You didn’t know how to heal.

And so you gave up. It wasn’t your first funeral, nor was it your last, but you had seen enough.

Now, you look at death and see it backwards, each person falling closer and closer to birth. 57, 40, 17. You pray it starts going back up again. You pray your next funeral might not be for a 3-year-old, but a 98-year-old.

Mostly, you pray life at thirteen is more complicated than life at twenty-two. Guess what? It’s not.

But you’re fine. Obviously, you’re more than fine. You still laugh nine out of ten days and you still look more or less the same. You still know how to hold your chin up, even if those other girls in town don’t.

And girl, you’re going so far. You don’t even know it yet, but you are.

This world, your life, your mind is a magical place.

Love,
Your future self

Everyone has an idea about what it means to be That Girl. This is mine.

The other night, a few of my friends and I went to this little local ice cream place. While eating, we somehow got on the topic of Girls and Their Friendships (or lack thereof). Anyway, I turned to my friend in the front seat of my car and said: “(name) and I aren’t friends anymore.”

“Let me stop you right there,” my friend’s boyfriend said. He said he didn’t understand girls and their friendships, how they could just drop people like flies. One minute you’re friends, the next you’re not.

“I’m not one of Those Girls who just drops friends,” I said. I went on to explain that she punched my best friend in the face. That she practically jumped on top of her. And so on. Some of you know the story; the rest of you don’t need to.

The point is: There is a difference between being thirty and believing you’re thirty. There is a difference between being eighteen, feeling invincible, and being thirty and pathetic.

I know all of this seems like it doesn’t connect, but let me back up for a second. That Girl thinks she’s thirty. She’s not twenty but acting like she’s thirty. She believes she’s ten years older, ten years wiser, than everyone around her. And I’m not saying it because I think she feels this way. I’m saying it because when someone walks around saying it out loud, there’s really no dispute.

For me, That Girl isn’t someone who walks around in skin-tight clothing and asks for all eyes to fall on her. She doesn’t fake tan until she’s orange. She doesn’t say all those ditsy, stupid things girls say to make a guy laugh. It’s not some physical attribute you can spot in a crowd. Not for me. For me, it’s inside. It’s someone who’s so far wrapped around something she’s not that she tangles herself up and trips. Someone who can’t even tell the truth from a lie, anymore. When you reach that point, losing sight of who you once were, you’re so far off the cliff that the only thing left to do is pray you survive the crash.

And sometimes, you don’t.

And maybe in the future, she’ll have her new dawn, her new day. But not here. Not with me. I am one of the most loyal, forgiving people, but there are certain things in my life you don’t mess with. My heart, my head, and the people I love. Because really, from the moment the fist hit cheekbone, a line was crossed. And it’s a shame, really, but there are some things I have to stand by. This one of those things.