Letter To My Younger Self by Devon Miller-Duggan

Letter to My Younger Self,

You are, in fact, almost as smart as everyone keeps telling you. But it means a lot less than they tell you it does. And your teachers and parents talking about it constantly is as invasive as you feel it to be, especially when they turn it into a weapon with which they expect you to beat yourself into conforming to some idea they have of what you should be doing with your “smart.” And it will turn out that you had trouble reading and trouble dealing with both too much and too little stimulation and with memorizing things because that’s how your brain is wired, not because you are lazy or defiant or defective.

You are not responsible for your parents’ happiness. You cannot fix their marriage, and you did not break it in the first place. Furthermore, your mother is not the “Good Guy” and your father is not the “Bad Guy.” His bad behavior is just a lot more obvious. It’s okay to love them both anyway, and you will get to a point where doing that doesn’t hurt. It’s also okay if they have to die before you get there; it won’t mean you’ve failed.

You were not fat at 14, and even when you become the size you were told you were, you will have a life full of love and adventure and wealths you can’t even begin to define now.

You are not going to win the Nobel Prize for literature. Stop caring about being “Norton Anthology Great.” It’s the wrong standard. You will keep writing. That is much more important than some definition of greatness you’re holding on to. Being a working artist is going to turn out to be enough. Well, not really enough, but close enough for gratitude.

Let that nice young man teach you Tai Chi. He likes your body and wishes it well.

You’re going to regret not letting those two boys you didn’t know teach you to surf, but it was probably a good call anyway.

Just because you’re “spoiled” doesn’t mean you have to have a sense of being “special.” “Special” turns out to be pretty meaningless. See paragraph #1.

Take the anti-depressants the first time they’re offered to you, not the 12th. It will save a lot of anguish for everyone. They don’t mean you’re weak. You don’t deserve and didn’t earn the pain. Your genetics suck and your environment was infelicitous—which is to say, you were screwed from the get-go. Get over it. Your pain does not make you special, either, though your ability to keep moving against it is pretty spiffy and it’s okay to be a little self-congratulatory about it; gratitude will still do you more good.

Thanks for sticking around.

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