Covered in grass stains, you will return home to experience your first period. You will feel ashamed and embarrassed of yourself for that, and for much more: for feeling uncomfortable navigating the cliques at school, for wishing you were more interested in boys, for not breaking down into tears on the day of 9/11, for always feeling like the last person to realize a certain brand was in or out of style, for absolutely loving math and science class, for genuinely trying your best at team practices, for being afraid to phone a stranger, for getting acne, for being taller than the boys, for being ungraceful, for being a fast runner, for loving Beethoven and Chopin more than Ashanti and Nelly.
No one told you to feel ashamed of who you are, but deep down you have started to feel that way anyway.
It saddens me to tell you that the shame creeping in at 13 will be all you know seven years later. At age 20, your entire existence will become a cycle between shame and escape. You will look at yourself in the mirror with disgust and hatred. You will barely be able to walk, let alone run. Every day, you will know how privileged and loved you were, how you had every chance in the world, and yet be unable to focus on anything else than satisfying your addiction. There is nothing I can say or do to prevent what will unfold – otherwise I know Mom and Dad would have. Trust me, they will try and almost lose themselves, too, out of desperation.
You won’t believe me now, but in eight years, on July 7, 2009, you will find yourself intervened on by the police, and your parents will have you taken to rehab.
You will be told, “you’re lucky to be alive,” then dread being alive because you don’t know how to live.