Never lose an opportunity of seeing anything beautiful, for beauty is God’s handwriting.
                                                    Ralph Waldo Emerson

Dear Joy,

Even though my mother and I are similar, we’re far from being amazing. If I am like my mom—and I hate my mom—I am not surprised I hate myself. There are so many things going on right now that are so suffocating as if I am being dragged endlessly in and out of an infernal river like the Phlegethon. My mind is an overblown balloon about to explode. Sometimes, I can feel all my bones strain under the weight of the world.

Let me tell my story from the beginning. First, you should know about the perfect family who brought up the ideal being that I am. I have three brothers. Scott, who is seven years older to me, is in the US Navy. My father always manages to bring him up in every conversation with anybody and everybody and to brag shamelessly. Scott gets to travel the world. I initially thought he was stationed in
the minuscule island of Guam, but I now believe he’s been relocated to Djibouti, a small African country near Somalia, infamous for its pirates. He was even involved in rescuing a hijacked cargo ship, just like the one Captain Phillips was on.

Seth and Sean are two years older than me. Yes, I am the baby of the family, and yes, they are twins, identical twins. No, they do not dress alike. They hate that. This summer, Seth is at a tennis camp at the famous Indian Wells. Sean will be college-touring and is seeking scholarships for track and field. My father travels a lot for I don’t know what kind of stupid business. In fact, he’s right now packing his cowboy boots for some hillbilly place in Arkansas. Even though my mother isn’t traveling anywhere (courtesy of her recently concussed daughter), her job as a geriatric nurse is just as demanding as it can get. Despite long, gritty days and stringent routines, she seems to find her job very rewarding. They all are leading fulfilling lives for they know their purpose on earth. Reasons to exist and happiness seem to follow every footstep they take.

I envy this joy. Why can’t I be happy too? I am always told, or politely implied, that I should be better and live up to the standards set by my siblings. With my current grades, I cannot aspire to any college worth its name. I cannot do anything right, and my family members take turns in belittling my every move. The only saving grace I had was soccer. I somehow made it to the varsity team at North Dallas High, even though I was most of the time just a benchwarmer. I worked so hard at practice—running, passing, fiercely tackling, and seized every opportunity to catch the coach’s attention. And then it happened in a split second, with the impact that seems to last an eternity. I jumped for a header in an attempt to score a glorious goal, Abby Wambach style, but then Chastity, the star of the team, not only foiled my plans for a slice of stardom but sent me crashing to the ground with a rocklike elbow punch. The world and reality blurred away. I remember having to count somebody’s fingers as if I was responsible for their absence. I was interrogated and asked to remember dates and locations, and I had to think hard to absolve myself from the alleged crime. I do remember the car trip to the hospital and endless questions that I had no answer for.

A few hours later, things seemed to get back to normal. I was told it was a minor incident and that after a few days’ rest, I should be back on the field. Everybody talked about some protocol, a fancy term that made me feel somewhat important. But there has been no return. I have not only failed the tests, but the other aspects of my life seem to have dragged along the downward spiral to chaos. My school grades, my ability to concentrate, my mood—everything went crashing. I felt miserable and strange, and to make things worse, my parents started hurling blame at each other for my plight. I even started hearing voices telling me mean things. I thought I was going crazy. That’s when my parents decided to take me to the hospital in Dallas. And we met. Sadly, the stay at the hospital does not seem to have done much good. I am still depressed. I was already a failure, but now the crumbs of hope I had are being blown away.

Simone

Dear Joy,

I have not heard back from you, but it has been only a few days since I wrote. I was tempted to text, but some things cannot be expressed in a hasty handful of characters. I should confess that I have been impatiently waiting for the pink envelope and neatly manicured writing pad. Anyway, let me pick up from where I left off last time.

My grades were never great, but now I am in failing territory. I will probably be the first in my family to fail a high school course. The squabbles between my mother and father, mostly over me, have not subsided. My mother being a nurse gives her the edge on deciding what’s best for me, and my father’s common sense and logic must trump everything. It is strange, but I am hardly consulted in any decision about my future. I just have to answer how I feel and then tolerate being told what to do.

I cannot get out of bed. I don’t know if it is all the medication or the hate and resentment I have toward everybody. Nothing seems to matter much anymore, but I do miss soccer. That was my last straw I hung on to, to prove my worth. I’m not sure how long it’ll be before I return to the field. Anyway, I know for sure it has been too long. I miss it all. I miss seeing my friends. I even miss the stretching. But I don’t miss Chastity. I can’t begin describing how much I despise her. I really do not want to think, let alone write, about her right now.

Talking of people I hate, do you remember I mentioned about a quirky neighbor from hell when we were at the hospital? Here’s some exciting news to “brighten” my day. I finally found out who she was. Her name is Regina Garcia. A bit of back story: Ever since I was little, I was warned not to make any sound near this woman’s house. If an unfortunate prey were to venture on the sidewalks near the damned household, it was likely for the old hag to run out frantically on the street claiming it was too loud. Her screams are as pleasant as nails scratching a chalkboard. Anyway, this wacko would consistently come banging at our doors and demand we shut up and go pray for our sin of hosting "wild" parties.

Mother says she is very bitter because her husband has cancerous warts on his face. The dubious justification did little to ease the feeling of my heart dropping down the Mariana Trench every time my ball would carelessly wander over the fence. I remember feeling like walking the green mile as I slowly trudged to retrieve my most beloved toy quietly.

A few days back, my mother forbade me from sitting too long in my sanctuary in our backyard. When I asked why this sudden banishment, she told me the creepy neighbor remarked that I was snooping. One time, I even caught her staring, and I dropped to my knees to avoid being in her line of vision. So now, I can’t even enjoy the pleasures of my own backyard. Somehow, petty things like these are why I hate the world. I find nothing beautiful about it anymore. It feels like I can’t connect with people. Not just people really, but everything.

When I am walking through a crowd, bumping into people busy as ants, I mumble horrible things to myself. It seems I am trying to squeeze myself into an elaborately shaped cookie cutter, but I just don’t fit right. God, I hate the world. I am not sure why I am telling you this, but you seem to be the only one who is at least trying to understand.

Simone 

Dear Simone,

Sorry for writing back late. I was on a trip to Canada, and we just got back. I sympathize with you for your strained relationship with seemingly everyone. This may not be of great comfort, but at some point, I think we all feel like that. As we slowly age and lose our prelapsarian, carefree, and innocent youth, it seems like we become socially aloof for no good reason. This is only a phase, however. It is just that we become picky about whom to let in and whom to weed out.

I do not wish to minimize your woes before the concussion, but I am not sure if things were all that bad after all. You were making decent grades, and you were an athlete. Are you sure your parents are not as proud of you as with your older brothers? Do not be too hard on your folks. I think comparing you with other siblings and using them to set the standards are very common parenting faux pas. You are different, you are unique, and there is no need for benchmarks.

I know things are terrible now, but it is the impact of the concussion. Please give it some time, and things will get better. It’s just a mishap and this is a temporary situation. Tread cautiously, and soon you will be back to a healthy, productive life, and you will see the beauty of the world and its people again.

Trust me; the world is beautiful. I do realize how clichéd that sounded, so let me rephrase it. The world is quite cool, you know. These problems may seem to live rent-free in your head right now, but they are, in the grand scheme of things, small and insignificant. If we become so absorbed in these pestilences, get consumed by our notion of being at the center of the universe, we forget to appreciate the small joys and beauties right in front of us. Let me tell you about a wonderful experience I had recently, where I, along with all my problems, suddenly vaporized in a vast world where I was smaller than a speck of dust. It was at Niagara Falls.

We booked a hotel room with an unobstructed view of this wonder of the world. When I looked through the window, I was gobsmacked. But soon the sight didn’t seem enough. I did not just want to see it, I wanted to feel it, and even more audacious, be it. I boarded a boat to go nearer to this gift of nature. My trembling hands held tight to my plastic poncho as the ship slowly rocked toward the epicenter. My heartbeats reverberated in my ears. The closer we got, the more the great cascade seemed to scream at trespassers. The torrent’s deep roar rocked the boat and pushed us back.
The boat sailed on. Everyone felt the soul of the falls as it lashed a small hurricane on the vessel. We spun in a frantic frenzy from our ignorance to its previous warnings. My poncho flew out of my hands like a sacrificial token.

Everybody clung to poles, praying the architect was reliable enough. The Niagara Falls made our boat dance as I felt we were about to be eaten alive. Ironically, I had never felt more alive. It was the most spectacular thing I have experienced. I could understand why Gustav Mahler, a classical musician, reacted the way he did when he found fortissimo (music piece played very loud) on experiencing Niagara Falls.

Visiting the falls made me realize how minuscule we are. There is no point in obsessing and getting wrapped up in the small, worldly problems because when we do, like an unresponsive mummy being entirely wrapped, we blind ourselves from the light and liveliness right in front of us. Look up from the muddy waves of setbacks to witness beautiful cascades of existence, so unique and so generous.
In other terms, Hakuna Matata. So, have a pleasant chat with your neighbor, stay strong, and take care.

Joy

Dear Joy,

Whoa, you do sound like a reincarnation of some nutty Greek philosopher with your wise and fancy words. And seriously, the motherland of maple syrup and Drake? Lucky you! Oh well, I could settle for at least one of us having some fun.

Although I should say, there is a little bright spot in my shadowy world. I met this boy, Damon, who is a senior at my high school. He was FaceTiming my friend Amy, and I was in the background, making sullen faces in oblivion. When I realized Damon was watching my Jennifer Lawrence impersonation with an amused expression, I quickly slid out of the screen, completely mortified. He probably asked Amy for my number, for an hour later he texted a fitting serious-face meme that emulated the whole awkward situation. I found his comeback witty and charming. Once we started talking, it never stopped. He’s clever, mature, and so funny. He’s different from all the losers in my grade. We’ve been close ever since. He’s super sweet. I like him so much. I hope the next time I write, Elizabeth Bennett will have found her Mr. Darcy.

Joy, I have a secret, and I have to tell someone. I have not spoken to anybody about it, not even Damon, whom I now babble to endlessly every day. The mere thought of someone finding out the truth is nerve-wracking. I’m tense just writing about it. Here it goes: I haven’t exactly fully recovered from my head injury. But I am playing soccer, earlier than I am supposed to. I know it’s dangerous and careless, but I cannot fall behind. I feel I have no choice. The main reason is that freshman milkshake duck named Chastity Bale. I cannot begin to describe how much I hate her, especially after her vicious attack on me that led to my concussion. We compete ferociously against one another. We mix like oil and water.

Chastity intimidates me. The very mention of her name flushes my mood down the drain with a toxic blend of loathing and dread. Her family breathes soccer. Her mother is a coach in a community college, and her father was a soccer legend at Wake Forest. They groomed Chastity to be the next Mia Hamm or something because she could juggle the ball when she barely knew how to walk. She’s an annoying freshman who recently moved into town and stole my hope to be a striker. I have since been trying hard to get to the coveted position. She hates me, and the feelings are entirely mutual. If I skip practice, I will lose my spot to her.

So I lied to my coaches and athletic trainers. I lied about how well I was during fitness tests. But worse, I forged signatures on medical release forms. I do feel the guilt churn in my stomach. I’m telling you because I know my dark secret is safe with you. I just need to get it off my shoulders.

I just can’t let that girl run circles around me for the whole world to watch. I know it’s reckless, and it can be debilitating, but I won’t sit back and watch her be the next GOAT. I hate the world for putting Chastity Bale in it.
Simone

Dear Simone,

For heaven's sake, stay away from the soccer field! I get that you badly want to keep up, but are you not throwing yourself into the bullring too soon? Are those trophies that important? Do you realize forgery of signatures is a misdemeanor? Please do not take this the wrong way, but even if I cannot feel your pain, I do believe that in the grand scheme of things, losing a spot in high school is not exactly Anne Frank seeing her dreams and future heartlessly crushed.

There are times when life’s natural flow, like the torrents of a waterfall, are too strong to battle. Your concussion is an injury that just needs time to heal. Let fate take its natural course. Don’t try to disrupt the nature of things by pushing through the tide. No worries, I am not going to snitch on you. But I would not condone your choice. Go to a nature park, read a book, chase butterflies, I do not know—just rest a little longer.

Dang, it seems like you hate this Chastity girl with a passion. It reminds me of the fierce rivalry between Tonya Harding and Nancy Kerrigan. I hope your enmity toward Chastity doesn’t blur the lines between right and wrong. Competition is supposed to be healthy, and a challenge to your glorious role as a striker is not a good enough reason to jeopardize your health. I doubt if she injured you on purpose. Hating a fellow teammate for her talents is unjustified. You and her are part of something bigger than your individual selves, the privilege of being a team. There is no need for so much hate. Despite the concussion, despite the competition, despite the rivalry, I am sure there is a lot of joy around you. You just have to open your ears and eyes to the music and beauty of life.

Joy

You make a living by what you get. You make a life by what you give.
                                                             Winston Churchill

Dear Joy,

You couldn’t be more accurate. My rivalry with Chastity is as fierce as that between the two infamous skaters. You won’t believe what she said! She came up to me in the locker room and conceitedly proclaimed that “Damon and I are following each other on Twitter. I hope you’re cool with that.” At practice, that sly devil was prancing around with such a big head as if we were supposed to bow to the Queen of Cleats. Then she told a teammate that I might not make the lineup this season but “Simone is such a natural talent.” What a two-faced beeyotch!

She’s even creating a wedge between my soccer homies and me, like some wicked centrifuge. On the field, I get these malicious looks, and cacophonic whispers that I know were instigated by Chastity. Now that she practically forced me way down to lame JV, I have to jump through
hoops and begrudgingly ingratiate myself with my coach.

You would understand why I have to push myself onto the arena. I have to pick up a sword, muster true grit, and fight like a warrior. I am aware of the risks, but I want to be remembered on the battlefield—like an honorable paladin knight. Home and school are still hell, but at least I have the pleasure of playing the beautiful game again and get a glimpse of Damon in between excruciatingly dull classes.

Simone

Dear Simone,

So, you are still playing soccer earlier than you should. Is this a battle worth fighting for? Real warriors fight the good fight. So please, call it a day and keep yourself out of harm’s way. Negotiate a truce with your soccer demons before your phony medical forms blow up in your face. It is not worth a pretty penny how good your megs are if you are caught red-handed with a fake signature on those concussion forms. You may think this is just a taradiddle, but it is a forgery, and it can get you expelled from high school altogether. For the love of God, I hope you realize you are playing a dangerous game.

Speaking of God, I just returned from a church retreat in Nepal. Yes, Nepal, where Mount Everest rules! I signed up for two weeks at an orphanage, as the country still recovers from a devastating earthquake. It was the most eye-opening and rewarding experience. Despite the garbled noises and chaos, the kids seem to be singing and swaying to their own melody. On the very first day, a few curious girls played with my hair, intricately interweaving orange marigolds in braids with their delicate little fingers. I became especially fond of nine-year-old Kiran, relinquished as a baby at the doorsteps of the orphanage, probably by remorseful parents who could not feed one more. He was spoony and yet wise beyond his years.

Compared with my little cousin Mara and her bratty attitude, the children were so gracious with their big, milky eyes. I was expecting the orphans to be reclusive and singing the blues, but they were oblivious and were just happy to be together. The unconditional affection the kids have for everybody is unlike anything I have ever witnessed.Their goofy smiles veiled many shades of misfortune. I
was particularly shocked at how girls may be looked down upon in Nepal. For instance, Chaupadi is a social tradition where women cannot participate in normal activities while menstruating because they are considered “impure.” When they start their period, they are banned into a dingy shed where they will sleep, eat, and stay far away from family and social events. A girl from the orphanage told us how her fifteen-year-old friend died from suffocation after living in the cramped hut for too long. And I thought the monthly assault of redcoats was traumatic for me.

I just finished pinning up the farewell cards on my wall. Even if they are illegible scribbles, barely honoring the English grammar, they were masterpieces with disarming profundity and tenderness. Kiran wrote, "Dear Joy, Thank you for be my friend. I miss you!” When I look at the kids playing in our cul-de-sac, it is a nostalgic déjà vu of Dhonu, Binsa, and the others. I often find myself tearing up just thinking about their smiles.

Sorry, I got carried away with my story. But I wanted to share with you what I learned from the trip, how it made me “wake up and smell the coffee.” Maybe it is time for a freshly brewed venti white chocolate mocha at Starbucks. The point of my ramblings is to implore you-do not just look, but see everything you have before you—throw it all away with your dangerous charade of being the “it girl.” I get that you want to stay relevant and sit at the cool kids’ table with their fancy letterman jackets. But are you really willing to break the law, and possibly get suspended for good, because a talented girl complimented your “natural potential”? Chastity is not the one responsible. You are.

Joy

Dear Joy,

Your words of wisdom arrived a bit too late. My secret was discovered when my athletic trainer called the doctor I supposedly visited. Everything started to unravel quickly, after the false and temporary sense of security in the eye of a storm. My mother’s volatile anger revealed itself in bulging veins and flaming blotches, while my dad accused me of being an inveterate liar with an absolute zero balance in my credibility account. The guilt I have for lying to my coaches, the athletic administration, and my parents feels like fireworks exploding in the pit of my stomach. I got kicked off the team, and now the only thing that made my life bearable has been snatched away. I know I screwed up big time, but please don’t suffocate me with yet another round of lectures.

Hold up, why is it necessary that I have to ask you to stop judging me? What makes you so entitled to come in swooping down with your divine grace like I am some enervated victim in dire need of being enlightened? I swear to god, this is the last letter I am sending you. I just wanted a friend, not another mother. I am no charity case that you need for your Insta. I am not another Nepali orphan that you need to selflessly save, or instead selfishly exploit to make you feel better about yourself. Going to Nepal was supposed to be humbling, but I can see it only made you more entitled.

Simone

Dear Simone,

I apologize if I seemed brash and patronizing in my previous letter. To criticize you with iniquity was never my intention. I expect no humanitarian award for volunteering in the Nepali orphanage and by no means do I picture myself as some perfect savior riding into your world of distress on a shining black stallion.

Look, nobody is perfect. I too have made many bad judgments in my life. There was one time I cheated on a history book test. I memorized a leaked answer key. It turned out that the answer key was the wrong one (it was Form A while I had brilliantly memorized answers of Form B). My teacher never looked at me the same way. I never looked at myself the same way again. Cheating, I learned, is like expecting underserved applause from a claque. Even though I felt humiliated and more ashamed than ever (and deservedly so), I tried to turn the ugly badge into graceful repentance and remorse, like how Hester Prynne did after being forced to permanently bear the abominable and appalling A in The Scarlet Letter. Did I do something morally wrong? Absolutely. Did I deserve to carry so much guilt? You bet I did. I am sorry I hurt your feelings. I hope we will still be friends, and it is okay if you do not want to write to me anymore.

But I would like to tell you about a little girl named Yahnaa in Nepal because she reminds me of you. She had these wide, bright eyes that were so intent on the world that they seemed to capture every movement for eternity. Her charcoal, thick, curly hair was similar to yours, and quite a hazard to any brush and comb that tried to tame it. She would not socialize with the other bubbly children because she was not like them at all. She was quiet the first time I met her, but by no means was she timid. She ran faster than any of the boys, literally running circles around
them and was unafraid to pick a fight. She was unaware of her abilities and potential. The little girl tried her best to stay invisible, but that proved to be quite a challenge for someone of her kind. She was delightfully chaotic, and a beautiful mess like autumn leaves falling everywhere.

Sorry I got carried away with sporadic details of this Nepali girl. What I was trying to say is the more intrigued I was about finding all the colors the little girl had in her ever-stretching canvas, the more I realized how unique each person is. In a way, we are all children who need to be loved for who we are. Every child in that orphanage (and so many others) deserves those who genuinely care and nurture them into the unique individuals they were all meant to be.
People are destined to help people. Volunteering and helping others is about a whole community coming together to help those in need. It is a collective effort and I, by no means, will ever take any credit for it. If you ever need a friend to talk to, I will be there, even if it does not seem like it at the moment. Take care. I wish you the best.

Joy

Dear Joy,

Look who has shown up yet again, the queen of righteousness! I do not give two fish sticks about the metaphorical rainbows that keep apparating from your illuminating travels and selfless exploits. You don’t seem to understand. You’re once again appointing and imposing yourself as a savior when nobody really asked you to be.

Look, I get it, there are kids out there who have it worse off, but you have no right to use that to climb pedestals.
Wait, what do autumn leaves and ever-stretching canvases have to do with my problems? Oh right, absolutely nothing. Telling me your trivial mistakes and shoving a story of impoverished children into the mix do not create a recipe for my enlightenment. So please stop flaunting pity and resume your real life of Uggs on leggings and oversized Michael Kors purses.

Simone

Dear Simone,

I am genuinely sorry for appearing to give you the advice you never asked for. Your harsh words had quite an impact on me. I feel like swallowing up all the words in my last letter, for I can feel the deep resentment you currently have for me.

Looking back, I can see how your irritation toward me is justified. I am not the Mother Teresa of your problems. I demanded the privilege of imposing on your thoughts and pursuits, all of which I am sincerely regretful for. I was just supposed to listen and be there for you as a friend, and I thoroughly faltered in doing so.

I will do my best to begin to choose my words more carefully if you ever do decide to write back. I am sorry.

Joy

I am happy because I'm grateful. I choose to be grateful. That gratitude allows me to be happy.
                                                                   Will Arnett
Dear Joy,

God, I hate people. I hate the world for bearing someone like Chastity. I mean seriously, out of seven billion people in the world, I had the misfortune of meeting her. Let me tell you what happened.

Okay, so I was walking down the school hallway going to pre-calc when I see Chastity holding hands with someone. She was walking like a slug, so I overtook her without looking back. Then I heard a familiar voice. My heart stopped when I saw it was Damon who was holding hands with my archnemesis. Words cannot even describe how angry I was. I almost turned around and slapped her in the face.

I checked their Instagrams and Chastity’s bio, and sure enough, there is a stupid heart-and-lock emoji next to his
name. It was pretty clear that Damon and I were a thing. So how can she just come in and snatch him away like that? It’s like I blink for a second, and Chastity is off chasing butterflies with my guy, with no respect for boundaries. Pure envy is the worst feeling in the world. It’s so obvious she’s only dating him because I was interested in him. They don’t go well as a couple, as if Chastity desperately threw something together, hoping it will stick like a thick strand of bitter glue.

Damn, the world does indeed suck. It feels as if we all are becoming more and more mercilessly egocentric with each passing day. Everywhere I look, hearts are growing colder, disapproving stares are lasting longer, and harsh words are being hurled more than ever before. It’s kind of sad how many students like Chastity don’t give a damn if someone is going through a difficult time. I find it upsetting how most people are so self-centered and oblivious of other people’s feelings and hardships.

Then some tell me to be thankful and appreciative, but don’t realize that I am too much in hell to unleash angels of gratitude to those who may have been there for me. To be honest, there are very few people I would thank. Is there really so much in this world that’s worth being grateful for?

Simone

Dear Simone,

I know you are going through a dark phase, but I also know, like everything else, it is temporary. Remember, change is the only constant in life. In fact, it is in these low points that you need to dig deep and appreciate what you have, or what is left, and it is always more than what you initially thought.

I know it is hard to imagine, but I am sure there is plenty to be grateful about. You asked me what (or who) is worth being thankful for. Well, let me tell you about my favorite teacher, Miss Moore. She taught me English in sixth grade when I still attended an actual school. She is quite a firecracker, her personality full of exploding colors that lucky students get to witness every day in class. She introduced herself to her students with a rather peculiar icebreaker: a rant about her short and dramatic marriage to an Italian.

Apparently a few years ago, there was a student on her phone during class, and when Miss Moore asked her to put it away, the girl sassed her. Now, in such a situation, most teachers would probably send the student to the principal’s office, but Miss Moore is far from the typical. She snatched the girl’s phone, got out of the classroom, and ran down the hallway. She was screeching some indiscernible mumbo jumbo while the student desperately ran after her. Herds of students abruptly revived from their habitual monotony, peered out of their classrooms with incredulity. The chase finally ended with the girl having to retrieve her inseparable companion from the recycling bin.

I have never been a fan of spontaneous and jazzy teachers. I prefer the classical elders who carry themselves with poise, assurance, and sophistication. Miss Moore was a
mess of a woman, but strangely enticing and charming in her unique ways. Her body fidgets synchronously with her eccentric mannerisms, as her feet seem to have a sprightly mind of their own. She educated impressionable padawans about her enlightening experience of several romantic fiascos and how she now refuses to be hampered anymore by the trivial trammels of marriage and life. Just like digging into the subtleties of rhetorical composition, she further explained her point: it would also be impossible for her partner to really understand her because she can barely understand herself.

Miss Moore is a feisty woman with a copious stream of sarcasm essential to her persona as oxygen is to the body. Her piercing eyes and sharp words reveal her passion for life with all its turbulence. She has a smirk with pretentious curiosity, always prone to embark on her unhinged adventures. There was never an ordinary day in her class. The woman consistently seemed to bedizen herself with overly bright and gaudy clothes that seem to occupy all corners of the classroom. She was also a self-acclaimed etymologist, unafraid to feud over a word’s definition with anybody, and engage in one-sided logomachies with her students.

Despite her erratic and questionable ways, she always put her students first. As a teacher, she is the crème de la crème. An advocate for creativity, she would tell us where and how to look, but not what to see. She appreciated us for who we were: the sleeper, the joker, the slacker, the go-getter, the optimistic, the quiet, the brainy, the jock, the goth. She was different because she would rip off those labels and inspire us to honor the unique individuals that we are.

Let me tell you how Miss Moore ends her classes. She adores the 70s rock band Journey and her favorite song of
all time is “Don’t Stop Believing.” It is that one song saying “she took a midnight train going anywhere.” Google it. Well, three minutes before the bell, she would play the song to nudge “the small town girls” or the “city boys” into packing their things for the next station of the midnight train. I appreciate her smart choice of a fitting song that captures the daily upheavals and transitions students go through.

Miss Moore is why I became passionate about writing. I was going through a rough patch, but she taught me how to use words as a mighty vessel to express my emotions and escape my anguish. Through the tumultuous years of susceptible students, teachers come and go. However, if we are lucky, there is that special one who changes our lives forever. For me, it was Miss Moore. She inspired me to be the best version of myself. She believed in me when I refused to accept any purpose in life. She encouraged me to speak up when I could not find my voice. As a flurry of teachers goes through our lives, our gratitude usually gets lost, often in translation, because we are too busy coping with the incessant waves of lectures, homework, tests, grades, and bad hair days. It may not be possible to do justice to the appreciation I have for many, but I feel I should try, even if it is just a token.

Joy

Dear Joy,

Regarding teachers, it’s quite a different story on this side, I guess the dark side of the force. I don’t like any of them, and none of them like me. They are as lifeless as statues. They carry no spark, nor do they seem to harbor any space for creativity. Maybe they should get a clue or two from Ken Robinson on Ted.

School is like a horror movie marathon. I have a physics teacher with an obsessive and compulsive eye for details, and if we meet anything less than perfection, it’ll be Texas Chainsaw Massacre all over again. My astronomy teacher looks like Freddie Krueger on a good day. The principal’s giggles on the morning telecom sound like the possessed and eerie Chucky. My chemistry teacher might as well cover his face like the psycho killer in Hush.

Most of them just give us packets to memorize rather than teach the material, some sitting arrogantly with feet up on tables, burying their nose into their phones. And when they do finally get off their asses to do their work, it is with mechanical words, as they were designed to bore humanity.
It’s gotten so bad that I have decided to file a complaint to the administration about my US history teacher, Mrs. Hanks. She is dull and too uninterested to be doing this job. She won’t even give me the grades I deserve for sitting through her excruciatingly dull class. The very thought of attending another lecture by Mrs. Hanks is depressing. She is an old crank whose cane taps on the floor reverberate menacingly throughout the classroom. The old hag’s tiny eyes are weapons that feast on whatever they focus on. Her wrinkled, oddly shaped face resembles the outline of a lost continent. The only amusing thing about her class is watching her balding head reflect the classroom’s light like
a disco ball. If her looks are bearable, wait until she opens her mouth. That’s when I want to slam my head with the bulky history book she makes us carry to school every day. On top of all this, she absolutely despises me, for no reason. I mean, seriously, what could I have possibly done to upset the crone? I can’t understand why she gave me a 67 on a group project while everyone else in the group got above 90. Teachers like Mrs. Hanks are why I hate school.

Simone

Dear Simone,

I should probably not voice my opinion too quickly, but maybe “boring” is not really a good enough reason to file a complaint. Also, I do not think merely attending classes should earn you any brownie points. Before doing anything drastic and getting to the point of no return, do keep in mind that Mrs. Hanks has a life too, and this is her career, even if sorely underpaid and undervalued, that we are talking about. I do, however, understand the current distress you have with your teachers. Maybe not all of them have a passion for teaching, but can you really blame them, with sometimes unruly, obnoxious, and impulsive teenagers?

You probably will not understand my excitement, but guess what I did today for Miss Moore? I paid her a surprise visit at the junior high I attended before being homeschooled, and gave her a ticket to Journey’s concert at the Woodlands Pavilion in Houston. The cherry on the cake was a backstage pass to meet the band members! She thanked me with an unusual lack of eloquence because she was so choked with emotions. I am quite ecstatic because I made a giving person happy.

Joy

I can see myself in all things and all people around me.
                                                         Sanskrit Phrase

Dear Joy,

I am writing this as I stare at the trees in my front yard. Almost all of them are blossoming with adornments in red and orange, beautiful fronds swaying to the waltz of the wind. But there is one small tree to the side that has no beauty to it; in fact, it is unfairly stripped of it. The trunk is lopsided and sorely cracking apart, unlike the others, which are stolid and perpendicular. Nothing is appealing about the decaying tree with no leaves in its custody; it's just an excuse of being alive. I feel like I am that tree.

Unlike all my friends and family, I am not thriving or growing; instead, I feel like I’m drowning. I am tired of feeling enslaved by my damn mind. It is not a place of spontaneous, youthful exuberance as it ought to be. It’s a still, dusty, and dark basement, unwelcoming to any light or people. It’s so hard for me because I want to be happy,
but I’m just not.

As petty as it sounds, I still envy Damon and Chastity for being together. I hate how he calls her “baby” and how he calls me by my name. I hate seeing them holding hands and smile at each other, lost in their own little world. I hate to see him hold her so close as if nothing could break them apart. Every time I see them acting cute around each other, I feel like taking a shot of vodka to calm my nerves.
School really sucks. I am failing with mostly Bs and Cs. I am like a baseball batter swinging hard at the ball, but always getting struck out by the teachers. School makes me hate myself even more. And I resent all my fake friends—the ones whom I am always there for but disappear when I want to be listened to. I sometimes feel like shooting them. I feel like killing myself too. I think about self-harming, and what’s it’s like to cut myself or take tons of Ibuprofens. Some days I feel nothing and want to feel something, and on others, I think too much and want to feel nothing. I am confused, tired, sad. I feel like putting my dad’s Smith & Wesson to good use.

Simone

Dear Simone,

I really hope you were in a bad mood and were just kidding about your father’s gun. It gave me chills when you alluded to shooting. Please tell me you are just carefree with words. Please tell me you are joking, and you know it is a very bad joke, given all the shootings that happen every day in our country. It baffles me how our “grownups” still think it is okay for everyone to own killing machines, even eighteen-year-olds (who, by the way, are not deemed mature enough to have a beer). I guess some people care way more about money and power than the tens of thousands of lives lost every year, even if they are innocent elementary kids.

There is really no justification for impulsively causing harm to others and to yourself. Please remember that there are so many good things and people out there. When I was struggling before heading to the hospital, I let the bleak colors of life paint-roll me into someone who awkwardly tried to blend with the bright background of the happy world. Like in Ellison’s Invisible Man, I thought I was a faceless and nameless person society had no interest in. But I was wrong. It was people who helped me to get better when I so adamantly refused to do so. It still amazes me how much support I got, even when I was staring right into the impersonal, cool eyes of the devil. Why fret over one boy and one girl when there is an endless throng of good people out there? I know it must be terrible to see a boy that you sincerely like with someone you genuinely dislike. I know it does not feel good right now, but remember there is plenty of eager, young fish out there.

You see, one unfortunate incident does not constitute a lifetime of immense misfortune, nor does it give justification to believe the world is all bad. I know there will always be those who are cruel and arrogant. That does
not mean every human is the same. In fact, most people are good. For every toxic person in your life, there will always be a hundred beautiful souls who will stand by you.
I just got back from New Jersey, where I went to celebrate the fascinating and lively Holi, the Indian festival of colors. The hyetal day only seemed to enhance the beauty of the age-old tradition of welcoming spring, because something is amazing about a smiling face dripping with red paint. It is fair game for anyone and everyone to spray one another with purple water or pink powder, in frolic abandon.

People, with all their eccentric foibles, weird cultures, crazy traditions, are quite beautiful and inspiring. I love what Anne Frank wrote in her diary: “I still believe, in spite of everything, that people are truly good at heart.”

Joy

Dear Joy,

How do you get all that cheesy jazz from throwing colors at someone? You know, you should be a motivational speaker. I wish I had that wise conscience and positive disposition of yours, as they would act as interior brakes to my evil impulses and irrational desires these days.

How can you tell me about the beauty of people and rich cultures when it’s the very same people who cause so many horrible things? We’re killing animals a thousand times faster than what nature intended. We are stubbornly destroying the planet out of sheer greed. Much more could have been easily done to alleviate abject poverty afflicting so many. Tens of thousands of children have been abused by priests, and to make matters worse, these cruelties were covered up by other priests. Should I keep going?

I mean it’s pretty apparent how sucky our world is. You like that colorful Indian festival, right? But do you know about the dowry deaths in India? They’re essentially about women who are murdered or driven to suicide through continuous harassment and torture by husbands and in-laws, attempting to extort large amounts of money brides have to pay for marriage.

I should say that your youthfulness and optimism lend to an extraordinary ability to hope in the worst of situations. I learned that about you the very first day we met. But what do you mean people are good or colorful when we live in a world of so much cruelty? You can call me a pessimist, but ain’t sure I can share your appreciation of the “beauty” of people.

I guess my own personal issues make me see only the meanness and evil around me. That’s probably why I have been numbing myself with rum and tequila. I even tried a
pot brownie, but I was overwhelmed with dizziness. Joy, I am still hung up on Damon. Love makes you do crazy things, and right now I am planning on winning him back. I think I’ll talk to him. I know I shouldn’t, but it just hurts seeing him with her. Is it too much to ask for a Goldilocks life, with everything just right?

Simone

Dear Simone,

I hope you are not really trying to win over Damon. Please do not get carried away by Hollywood-style romance, because the reality is less glamorous; the pain and heartbreaks are genuine. In all honesty, how long do you think these high school flings last? A few weeks? Just be patient, odds are, these passionate feelings will simmer down with time.

Also, I am not saying the cruelty of humans can be overlooked. Absolutely, there is so much misery that humans are responsible for. Yes, child abuse, oppression of women, and other evils are unfortunately widespread. However, I do believe in our ability to change, to fix these problems, and grow from them. I believe in people. I really do.

I will tell you something. Celebrating Holi in New Jersey was such an experience. People chased each other around richly carved tabernacles, through the streets and fields, while buildings were left absorbing neon colors. I learned how beautifully spiritual and intricate the Indian culture is. I wish you were there with me so you could see the beauty of these people. If I spent my days wallowing at every misfortune people have caused, I would never get up and really open my eyes to the infinite promise people, and cultures, hold.

Joy

YOLO.

Every middle school student.

Dear Joy,

Please refrain from saying “I told you so.” I followed my impulsive heart instead of my rational mind and went to talk to Damon. It turned out to be a complete disaster. I first texted him and basically asked if we could talk. It was a curt but rather droll “K.” We readily agreed on the inevitable Starbucks.

We first bantered frivolously about how much junior life sucked, the proof being our baggy eyes from inadequate sleep, unattended pimples from overwork, and out-of-place outfits from chaotic mornings. I then asked him how his siblings were, and he told me his elder brother was accepted to West Point. We talked on and on about families, friends, and soccer.

Gradually, I began pitching hints about my emotions for him. I think I even told him that it should have been the
two us together (instead of you know who) and how amazing it would be. I somehow injected some dumb poetic line along the lines of “you are the apple of my eye.” Yeah, I know, how freaking cringeworthy was that?
He sat there quietly with a sore look on his face as if the Caramel Macchiato was suddenly bitter and unsatisfying. I tried to be soft and charming when I talked, like an artist effortlessly painting a beautiful fruit basket or something. Given the ending, however, I might as well have been a clueless monkey painfully scratching on paper to come up with a doodle of just a messy ball of yarn.

Things were not working out. So I got a bit pushy. I started talking trash about Chastity and even told him how arrogant and overrated I thought she was. It was followed by what seemed to be an eternal awkward silence. Desperate to end the nightmare, I dumbly leaned in for a peck, and he backed away swiftly. He mumbled a few unintelligible words of obvious discomfiture and left me basking in a pool of embarrassment, as I stared in disbelief at his cup still full. You were right, the heartbreak and rejection felt all too real. It’s hard not to hate yourself for choosing to be vulnerable, only to be discarded like a drained battery.

That’s the thing about running off into the beautiful sunset, it eventually gets dark, and you end up getting lost. You know, part of me thinks I set myself up for heartbreak, so I have yet another excuse to drink.

Simone

Dear Simone,

Quel dommage. I told you so! Seriously.

I understand the bitter feeling of being rejected. I am worried about you needing an “excuse to drink,” which seems to be getting out of hand. I get that drinking enables you to be untethered and live for the exhilaration of the moment. Alcohol is probably a way for you to forget the pain of the past and the uncertainty of the future and extend the bliss of the present. It does not sound terrible, but can quickly degenerate.

My cousin Liam was an alcoholic. He was a pre-med student who was determined about fully living an adventurous and prosperous life. I remember the times when he began to crack under pressure. I was too young to really understand what was wrong with him. I used to laugh at his deep, heavy snores at family reunions or his sharp, unnatural giggles that would suddenly escape him. He ended up dropping out of college and having to move into our house because he had too many quarrels with his father.

I remember a Christmas night I, being the naive amiable child, stayed up all night to see when Santa would come sliding down the chimney. I remember excitingly wanting to inform the silhouette hovering over the fridge that his cup of milk was on the table. But it turned out, to my disillusion, to be my cousin. I saw him collapsing on the floor. It was alcohol poisoning, I later found out. I implore you to seek help if you need it. Please. It is sometimes okay not to be okay, and you do not need to escape reality. Embrace it and be patient.

Joy

Dear Joy,

I know how to be alive, but I want to live. I don’t know how though; that’s probably why I drink. Drinking to me is like dancing in the dark. It gives a strange feeling of vulnerability and uncertain freedom because at that moment, you trust the darkness to hold your intimate secrets, hoping that when lights come back (which they inevitably and sadly do), they won’t blind you. You see, with a drink, most people disregard all the mess, but I am able to rule the world, even if it’s just ephemerally.

You know the saying “you are what you eat?” Well, for me it’s “you are what you drink.” My friends are like-minded, stereotypical, and troublesome youngsters whose lives are only fulfilled by the rush of dancing, drinking, and numbing music. Admittedly, partying is a facade that continuously blurs the delineations of a good life. I know it’s terrible for me, but I just don’t know how to stop it.

It was only a week ago that I thought I too got alcohol poisoning. A senior made a bet that I wouldn’t be able to race him in the 60 beer shots in an hour, that is one shot per minute. I didn’t make it very far. I remember staggering away and being so confused as to why I couldn’t feel my feet touching the ground. My skin was sticky, and the bright lights vibrated through my toes and up my spine. I was throwing up for several hours after that.

These days, Miller Lites seem to be the only solution for breaking free of the person I hate most: me.

Simone

Dear Simone,

I hate to hear you struggling with what looks like an addiction problem. I hate to hear that you are struggling at all. I may not suffer from such an intense longing, but I know what it is like to have your head continually spinning because your world is a chaotic mess. I, like most people, can sing the blues about the moments in which I lose myself. I know I lost life’s bearing many times. The nights became colder, quenching all warmth toward others. But I survived through them. I know you can too, for you are always stronger than you think.

Simone, you do not have to carry the whole world by yourself. Seeking help does not mean you are weak, but you are strong enough to do it. There are so many small, wondrous things about the world that are waiting to be discovered by nobody else but you, and you do not need alcohol or drugs to do it. You do not need a carte blanche to be free and independent. You do not need an indulgence to lead a happy life. Take care, Simone. I hope you get better.
On a less somber note, we both will be turning eighteen this year! Have you planned anything special? Well, I have decided on getting a tattoo. I do not want it to be a picture or colorful, more like words or symbols. The tattoo is going to be alarmingly permanent, so it has to mean something. Any ideas?

Joy

Dear Joy,

Sorry for not writing to my favorite pal for so long. I have been buried in school work, trying to grasp air amidst piles and piles of pages, folders, and textbooks.
As far as tattoos go, I have always been fascinated by them. In particular, I find hand tattoos so beautiful. Yes, I will turn eighteen in a few months, and I plan to earn my right to several of these gems. I was captivated by an Insta post with a ribcage tattoo that goes like “And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music.” I would love to have something like that inscribed on my arm. I also want the three wise monkeys stacked vertically on top of my ankle.

I honestly don’t know what would suit you. Actually, I never imagined a goody two-shoes like you would be drawn to these symbols of rebellion. You should get a tiny tattoo that you can easily hide for job interviews—maybe on your shoulder, or better still, on your butt! Well, I have more significant issues to deal with right now other than where to have my next tattoo. I am deeply unhappy with my current otiose self. As high school comes to a dramatic finale, I cannot help but desperately hold on to the remaining slither of hope I have for my uncertain future.

Happiness isn’t so easy when I’m sober. I remember the hospital trying to teach me to appreciate the small things in life. But now even the tiniest of misfortunes casts a much bigger and darker shadow in which I struggle and strain to see the light. I don’t really enjoy anything I’m doing, even things I used to relish. And I’m tired. So tired. Too tired to really do anything about it. I tend to succumb to the repetitive words that keep spinning in my head like a vicious spin the bottle all pointing to “I can’t, I can’t.” Life is moving too quickly, like in Fahrenheit 451, where in my
world I only feel immediate gratification (drinking) plagued with this inability to really feel anything at all. I hate to sound like some depressed poet sitting on Bourbon Street in New Orleans, which is probably what I will be as the sober future is looking bleaker than ever.

Simone

Dear Simone,

If you watched Kung Fu Panda, you would probably remember the elderly tortoise Master Oogway saying “Yesterday was history, tomorrow is a mystery, but today is a gift. That’s why they call it is the present.” I know it is corny, but I have always treasured this quote ever since I was a child. It is a reminder to sometimes stop and really look around in our otherwise chaotic lives. Stay in the present moment and stop worrying about the immutable past and the obscurities of the future.

I know it is hard right now. There will sometimes be night skies with no stars. And that is okay. Do not lose hope. Do not sit down and accept defeat. Keep on running, running despite the cold wind, knowing that you inevitably will reach a better place. Remember, we are young blood, still finding ourselves, and for the first time running through the jungle and crying with the wolves.

Can you believe we are seniors now? Do you have any colleges in mind? As I reflect on these last few years of my life, I come to the realization I will soon be pushed out of the bird’s nest whether I am ready to take flight or not.
After much thought and consideration, I have decided to get Erin Hansen’s quote, one of my favorites, on the back of my shoulder:

What if I fall?
Oh, but my darling,
What if you fly?

I hope this letter offers some glimmer in the dark shadows you seem caught in. I send lots of love your way.

Joy

Dear Joy,

Oh my god, you won’t believe what happened last night! My life is proving to be a series of unfortunate events. After slurping just two shots of vodka at a party, I became really drunk. I remember first feeling the buzz as my body felt warm and cozy while the pulsing lights vibrated through my toes. What happened next was something I had absolutely no recollection of, but was told to me the next morning.

Apparently, Chastity was also at the party and decided she’d act all smart and record my inebriety. So, I shoved her rather viciously. She tumbled like a rag doll, fell on two guys, knocked cups out of their hands, and created a sudden shower of beer. She shoved me back. According to my friends, I grabbed her by the ponytail and punched her right in the face! This bulky frat boy had to pry me off her before I could go for another blow. Chastity’s nose was bleeding, and she was sobbing like the little baby she really is.

News of me punching Chastity is spreading like wildfire. The worst part is that a video of the brawl was captured from an entertained bystander and is now circulating quickly around school friends. At this rate, I’ll be as infamous as the hair-pulling soccer girl from New Mexico. Just thinking about fellow peers watching my fist slamming into Chastity embarrasses me to death. I don’t know what to do. Being drunk has led me to do stupid things, but I’ve now been catapulted across the lines of what acceptable drunken behavior is.

I have been incredibly shaken since, and I keep imagining the horror when the news reaches my parents. I can only pray that nothing more comes out of this, except for a wicked satisfaction about Chastity’s broken nose.

Simone

Dear Simone,

Oh. My. God. Seriously? A fight? Simone, that is the last thing you need. I hope you did not get into much trouble.
You have not really been a paragon of impulse control lately. I could go on a stanchless flow on how your behavior has led to far too many irresponsible decisions. I understand you drink only because you are hurting, but I implore you to seek help before the Jack-in-the-box coil unravels any further and eventually bursts out and scares everyone.
I worry about any repercussions at school and even legally. My little cousin Jackie shoved a girl at school when she grabbed her phone and refused to give it back. At just the ripe age of fourteen, she had an assault charge looming over her. You, on the other hand, broke a girl’s nose! You could get into serious trouble for not only punching somebody but for underage drinking as well.

I suggest you lay low for a while and not engage in anything volatile. I am sure the lack of control when drunk is not something you would want to experience again. I just hope you find your way out of this sticky situation.

Joy

Dear Joy,

The day after the brawl, I saw Chastity in the school hallway. The bridge of her nose was severely bruised, and her eyelids concealed a dark-blue blotch as if a thousand angry bees maliciously attacked her. She saw me and stared as if I were the devil. I hurried out of her sight, strangely feeling regretful, even though it was just Chastity.
I left school to find my two parents home early from work.

My dad was puffing his chest like the big bad wolf ready to blow the house down. My mother sat in the kitchen with a pale, grave look on her face as if she was wrestling with the compulsive idea to strangle me. Apparently, Chastity’s father called my dad. Mr. Bale went on a long rant on how they were going to file an assault charge against me for breaking Chastity’s nose and how we should bear all medical expenses. After that, what I could remember is the wild screaming of two mad adults launching and hurling accusations and hurtful words at me. I sat still, without a tear, just my head spinning out of control.

I fessed up and told them that I was drunk and therefore had little control over my actions. This led to even more yelling, with a dose of wailing. I tried to tell them I drink because I am in emotional pain, but they were in no disposition to empathize. Actually, they never do; my parents don’t give a shit about what I’m really going through. The conversation ended with them asking for my phone and ostracizing me to my room. It really feels like you are the only one in the whole damn world who at least tries.

This is a scary time for me. I still feel like I have so much distance to go before I am officially classified as a grownup. I’m not ready to be an adult because how am I supposed to demonstrate maturity and confidence if I
don’t even like who I am? In fact, I hate myself. I look in the mirror, and I see a stranger, a robot whose only functions are to obey, serve, and grind. You are the only one that I’ve ever admitted this to because my friends think the opposite: a feisty, energetic, confident girl, unafraid of the world and what it holds. Appearances can be deceptive because underneath I have always been deeply insecure, frightened, and lonely. I am terrified of other people, of the future, of failure, and of my lack of ability. In what seems like a perfectly cemented foundation, lie deep-rooted cracks that others will never notice. This low self-esteem often causes me to push away people I care about most. Even with those who will do their best to discharge their endearing obligations toward me, the nature of our attachments is continually being questioned, given my own selfish insecurities. I admittedly steer clear of relying on anyone emotionally as I cannot trust its utility, and I do what I can to remain autonomous.

So yeah, please don’t remind me that we’re seniors because I have little time left to figure all this out. I think I’m just going to the local community college, with its nearly one hundred percent acceptance rate. I have absolutely no idea what I’m supposed to major in. I just know I don’t want to sit behind a computer in a cramped office for the rest of my life. Well, I may not even be able to go to college if I am charged with assault.

Let’s hope the next letter I write won’t be from jail.

Simone

Dear Simone,

Yikes! I feel for you girl. I suggest you apologize to Chastity, face to face. No gimmicks, no excuses, just true sincerity in your mea culpa. A simple apology can take one a long way, possibly further than initially thought. And please try not to pick yourself apart anymore. If you are shattered into pieces, use your inner strength as glue to stick yourself back together again. However, you should admit that you could have done more to put out the fire you started with alcohol. It is time you do something about it, whether having a serious chat with your family or just merely quitting this consuming vice.

To be fair, we youngsters have challenges more difficult to navigate through than the past generations. I feel high school is like stumbling your way across a maze in the dark. I know sometimes expectations are too high, so high that we lose our footing and plummet down in the darkness. But it is not about the destination. To quote Miley Cyrus, it is about “the climb,” or in other words, the journey to get there. Take in every minute and every breath, fully immersing yourself in the present. Everything eventually works out, and I know your situation will improve. Stay safe and take care.

Joy

The true mystery of the world is the visible, not the invisible.
                                                         Oscar Wilde
Dear Joy,

There is something else that is holding me back like overbearing shackles that make it impossible to move forward. It is my dad. He is hands down the most controlling man ever to roam this Earth. He critiques my every move, my every progress, my every fumble. I am afraid of him and the venomous words he spews like a machine gun. Literally, he has commented on everything, from the way I tie my shoes to the way I do my hair. He is so stubborn that he will always have the last word, even with God. Every conversation I’ve had with him makes me feel a little more reduced and invisible.

Do you understand what that does to a person? My dad picks me apart and then puts me back together in the wrong order. He forces me to do stuff until I hate what I am doing, and worse until I hate who I am. It’s like he’s
trying to live the life he didn’t have through me. I am stripped of a voice and identity. My doctors implored my father to be less demanding and dominating, but even their PhDs and medical degrees were not enough to budge him. This brute of a man will never change and will keep suffocating me until I breathe my last. Please tell me what I can do before I am forever lost in the alien world he has envisioned for me.

Simone

Dear Simone,

I am sorry to hear you are having issues with your father. It is common that kids our age feel like their parents are micromanaging every move. I lost my father to cancer when I was very young. So my mother filled the shoes of two, and like most parents nowadays, she tended to pull all the stops in molding my life into perfection, aghast at the slightest mistake I may commit.

Your father is only trying to guide you because he cares and wants you to be the best version of yourself. His intentions are good despite the understandable frustration you are currently feeling. Find the courage to empower and stand up for yourself in a way that is prudent and inoffensive.
Maybe you can try a rather cheeky approach that I used to get my mother off my back: passively and positively defy his demanding ways by claiming how your “friend’s mom” is incredibly controlling and nonchalantly listing out precisely the type of orchestration your father engages in.

I feel like in this generation parents are more involved than they were in the past. Parents need to understand that they must let their kids stumble on the real world’s rough terrain and let them learn to get up and thrive. We need to be able to pave our own paths, to dream our own dreams, to live our own lives.

Do not give your father, mother, or really anybody the power and opportunity to tear you down, even inadvertently. At the end of the day, it is your life. I hope everything works out between you and your father.

Joy

Dear Joy,

Maybe I will try your crafty ways of dealing with my father, but I doubt it will work. Actually, my father’s high-handedness is not the only thing that has been wearing me down. There is something very wrong with me. I hate to be such a bother to you or really anyone. In fact, most days I feel I am an annoying burden to other people; that’s probably why I repress my feelings and thoughts. But I need to get this one out. I am hearing voices. Not some deep sentiments finding their way out, but real voices of people telling me mean things.

I am in really a lot of pain. Most kids my age sing in the showers but I spend all my time there crying. I sit curled on the shower floor, letting a hot stream of water drown out my tears, and speak over those mean people. So much so that I do not see much point for talking, for moving, for breathing. I have completely lost myself, but again, I am not sure if there is anything worth finding.

Every negative thought leaves little room for anything else. I am slowly feeling myself lose the battle of life. The day when others convince you that you are just an unwanted spare part, the day when you slowly empty your heart until you feel nothing, is the loneliest day ever. Really, what is the point of all this suffering?

I can’t get out of bed, and because of this, I’ve missed so much school. My brother thinks I’m lazy, my friends think I’m this cool chick playing hooky, and teachers think I am a truant. What they think of me greatly upsets me. They just don’t get that every day is a struggle, how it is so much better to be asleep than awake. I am ashamed by how inept and ineffective I am. My mind and body feel like a fried computer where every reboot attempt fails. This sickness has infected even the most mundane and secluded crevices
of my mind.

The voices I hear follow me every step of the way. How screwed up is that? They feast and dine like kings and queens in my mind. And when they are really drunk from the copious stream of wine, they are not mere voices anymore, but belligerent, incoherent bellows. In those moments, I find myself blacking out. They yell over my heavy breaths and subdue my own feeble voice. They tell me horrible, horrible things. It is so messed up. I cannot bring myself to tell anybody about my ordeal. You are the only one that I can trust.

Simone

Dear Simone,

I know you are stronger than these voices. Hopefully, with the right therapy, medications, and patience, these voices will just be distant echoes of your pain. I hope you know you are loved and are never alone. I wish I could be there to give you a bear hug. I am sure that everyone close to you loves you. Have faith in the fact that it will get better. And you are by no means a monster; you are a caring and passionate young lady who can do this. Things always change—that’s immutable. There is so much coming for you, Simone, so try to stay positive. Those voices you mentioned were very mysterious to me. I know we always talk about an “inner voice,” but I never knew one could hear actual things until I found some YouTube videos on it. I think they are called auditory hallucinations.

The world can be strange and mysterious. For some reason, I am thinking of you and Stonehenge. If you do not know what Stonehenge is, well, in the south of England, there are ancient monuments that consist of stones standing in a circle. Each stone weighs around 25 tons. They were assembled in prehistoric ages. The stones are set up in such a way that they align with the constellations as well as the sun on solstice days. Many aspects of Stonehenge, like how and why they were built, remain a mystery. How can we explain that such massive stones were moved for kilometers to the Stonehenge site when not even the wheel was invented yet?

I know you are wondering why on earth I am telling you about this. I am myself not sure why I am rambling about Stonehenge. I visited it sometime back, and it kept me wondering about the mysterious ways of our existence, our insignificance in history’s timeline, the reason for many things we hear, do, and feel. Why do some decide to do such incredibly tricky things? Who told them they are worthwhile pursuits?

Simone, I wish I could provide some useful answers, but I do not think anybody has really figured it out. Life, much like Stonehenge, remains an enigma, which is probably what makes it so beautiful and fascinating. Our existence is like a movie plot with its share of twists and turns. You have one shot at this thing called life. Embrace the uncertainty.

Life is not worthy of living if there are no problems, no mysteries, and no unexpected situations that come crashing into your world because without all the qualms and fickleness, there is no curiosity, no incentive for life’s journey. Do not fear the unknown. Embrace it.

Joy

Dear Joy,

Sorry for not replying earlier. But something terrible is happening. First, I cut myself. The voices were imploring me to do so, like a bellicose coach demanding more laps. I finally complied. I was in the shower when I heard them. They made comments about my bare body, and it escalated from there. Consciously, I was not inclined to cut myself. But I was in a trance when I picked up the razor. I held its plastic bottom and scoffed at its bright pink color. The razor blade felt like a sharp, searing iron across my skin.
I started crying when I watched the red ooze spill and accumulate in the shower. It wasn’t because the warm water burned the cuts, but because I realized how messed up I was. Why? I liked doing it. It was an adrenaline rush like none I had ever experienced. I got out of the shower when the blood stopped spilling. Like a killer cleaning up after a murder scene, I scrubbed the blood and washed it down with soap and lukewarm water. I didn’t want my mother to see the red stains at the corners of the tub.

The voices in my head are so vile and wicked, and I just can’t help but comply. When I hear all the opinions and instructions, I go to the shower and cut myself to prevent me from blacking out. I want to feel something instead of the pervasive numbness. Yesterday evening, I woke up in the bathtub filled with blood. I have no idea how I got there. I sat there in horror.

I think I’ve already crossed the line in your perception of my sanity, so I might as well continue. You see, the voices don’t just tell me to harm myself, they ask me to hurt others too. They convince me how easy it would be to just barge into the first classroom with my father’s revolver, and shoot away. The voices tell me, with mechanical precision, how it should be done. They paint a vivid picture of my initiative and accomplishment, and the fame and adulation that will follow. Yes, my coach will finally notice me. I know I am probably crazy, but somehow it is making sense. God, yes, the voices are making me a monster. Maybe I am one, and this is what I was destined to do. Perhaps I, along with Chastity and Damon, deserve to be put away.

I borrowed my unsuspecting dad’s Magnum from its “safe place,” and I am holding it to feel its weight, how it should be handled, and where it fits in my backpack. I don’t want to do it, but the voices are not going away. My clueless parents think I am a loser and failure, and I believe them. It would be redemption if I can show them what I am truly capable of, and then erase my existence. If you think about it, I am just another number in this world of billions. One more death would mean nothing.

Simone

Dear Joy,

I know you have not received my last letter yet, but I had an insane couple of days. The day before, I woke up to my voices. I had enough of it all. Something finally broke me, like the fragile glass of my soul had finally cracked. I could no longer handle the stress and hell of these hallucinations and blackouts. My brain was a wildfire that was impossible to be tamed.

The trashcan made a dull thud as my backpack vomited pencils, folders, and assignment sheets. I felt the gun’s cold metal layer slide from my hands into the now empty backpack. I always thought of myself as being more rational that spiritual, but I genuinely believe that the Devil had finally made its way into me. I planned to go through the back entrance where the locker rooms were and go to Mrs. Hanks’ class, where I knew Damon would be right behind Chastity in the last two rows. My own voice was no longer the owner of my head; the others had forced it out.

That’s when I heard someone distinct. It was your voice. I could hear your soothing tone telling me to stop. The malicious voices gradually fled my mind, as if your strong presence had scared them into hiding back in their dark shadows. It was like smelling the smooth, silky trances of lavender soap, so calming and refreshing. Your voice told me a lot of things, but the thing I remember you said most was “sometimes there are night skies with no stars, but that is okay.” I stopped in my tracks, feeling the weight of reality hit me like a load of bricks. I realized how deranged and horrible it would be to comply with anyone else’s demands. I hastily placed the gun back in its safe sanctuary.

I snapped back to reality. I realized just how insane I was going. I had to pack and leave. I needed to get away; I
needed to run. Everything in the current world didn’t seem right. I felt like I was swimming against the waves, struggling to get to the shore, and fire ripping through my lungs, screaming for air. Life became agonizingly still, and time came to a halt. The only thing I knew was that I was a dangerous monster that needed to be away from people, especially people I cared about most. Before anything else could go horribly wrong, I trudged unconsciously for almost an hour to the Greyhound bus station with my slovenly assembled backpack of essentials. I had just enough cash for a one-way ticket to Fredericksburg. I then sat on the rusty bench waiting on my three o’clock ride, with copious waterworks streaming endlessly from my eyes. I thought of past memories of the happy girl I used to be. What went so wrong?

I remember those loaded moments before getting on the bus vividly: that stirring smell of coffee from the nearby shop, the huge, noisy coach with a Fredericksburg inscription finally towering over, and the reality sinking in. I boarded the bus hesitantly, and there were hardly any passengers, so I was happy to be left alone. Soon after, as I leaned back in the sagging velour seat, the coach jolted into motion.

The further along the bus went, the less entertaining the thought of running away became. The mounting anxiety was like fingers choking my neck, slowly squeezing the last breath out of me. What if my parents called the police? Where was I going to stay? What if I ran out of money on my credit card? What if I never went back home ever again? Questions kept swarming in my head like bustling bees in a beehive. I remember watching the clouds from my window seat and wishing I were up there instead of facing the heartbreaks down here. I gently drew a thick outline around a small bug that was clinging to the moist window from the outside, until it was blown away by a gust of wind. It reminded me of my own destiny, hanging on to the dear life secured with much travail, only to be swooped away to a new place by the whims of fate. I don’t know when, but I fell asleep, following the exhaustion from a crazy day.

I got off in Fredericksburg late evening and wandered around the small town, somewhat ill at ease among the dim lights and shriveling trees. To divert my mind from troubles at home, I roamed around antique stores, meandering through shelves of little treasures, like old ivory knobs and rustic doors. At one point, I stumbled across a church with Gothic features and a high-rising corner tower. The interior contained paintings and murals, and the air smelt of overburnt candles. I sat on a shiny wooden bench inside the church for what seemed like hours, completely lost in a tangled jungle of my thoughts. When I finally stepped out, it was a bright, moonlit night, but filled with damp, sweet sadness and sullen expectation. I wish I could have drifted around longer, but as it started to drizzle, the crowd dwindled, and I snapped back to reality—the need for food, safety, bed, shower.

As darkness fell upon the town, it seemed like every person in view was aware of my every move and could see through my state of turmoil. I was scared. I checked into a cheap motel with some money I had left over on my debit card. The receptionist, a foreigner with a heavy accent, probably Indian, looked at me with suspicion, but luckily did not delve into the age that my driving permit revealed. I was not sure if I was legally allowed to stay there alone.

I took a shower and just sat there feeling the warm water wrap my body like a blanket. I desperately needed the comfort. I cried some more. When I got out of the shower, my phone was blowing up with missed calls and messages. I sent one brief message to my mother saying that I was fine and would not be coming home for a while. I switched my phone off because my heart was going to implode from the anxiety of the situation. I never felt so lonely my entire life. I was at that moment a tiny girl in a big, big world.

I stayed in that room awake the whole night, switched my mind off, and just binged on corny shows like Dance Moms and Riverdale. I ventured out only to the Chick-fil-A next door, craving incredibly satisfying spicy sandwiches, waffle fries, and garlic and herb ranch. I finally slept in the armchair with the TV still on.

I woke up early in the morning with a migraine. After an hour of deliberation and carefully rehearsed words, I finally called my father. I broke down, telling him where I was. After a couple of hours that lasted an eternity, he knocked on my door. He gave me the biggest hug I’ve ever gotten from him. I have not talked to my parents yet. They do not seem to be in a hurry for details, probably extending the euphoric relief that I was still in one piece, before uncovering unpleasant revelations. This gave me ample time and space to write to you. I always hated writing, but it is incredible how much I wanted to pen down my tribulations for you.

Simone

Dear Simone,

I was stunned when I read your letters. I tried calling you, but you did not pick up. To be frank, I almost called the police! I always thought of myself to be good with words, but I am struggling to find the right ones for you. I apologize if this letter fails to do you any justice.

I am glad you realized that hurting others, and yourself, is not the answer to anything. Simone, you have to talk to your parents and mental health specialists. You are not well, and you need to be strong enough to seek help and tell the truth to people who will help you overcome your illness. I have to say that, like you, I have faced some major upheavals in my life too. Finding the courage to seek support and talking to the right people were vital in preserving my sanity.

Today, I watched a video of a woman named Eleanor Longden describing her world plummeting when she started hearing voices. I learned that recovery from such delusions is not easy, but possible. Try to find out what triggers the noises in your head; maybe learning what causes them can help you control, or at least understand, them.

The voices are your own deep sentiments and insecurities. Perhaps, you could have a lavender-scented necklace that you can smell when you feel yourself letting go (I found that very useful when I was battling my own demons).

I can only imagine the hopelessness, self-doubt, and mistrust with the inner verbal abuse you are enduring. Do not let figments of your imagination control reality. Please pay no heed to any stigma about hearing voices, and you do not have to be ashamed of them, because, just like a cold or cancer, it is a real illness. So, please, please seek
professional help. You are stronger than the dreadful squatters in your head. I know you will ultimately evict them.

Joy

Keep your face to the sunshine and you cannot see a shadow.
                                                           Helen Keller

Dear Joy,

Sorry I could not write back the last few weeks. I have been busy with school, doctors, and therapists, or just tired of all the homework and medication. Thank you so much though for your supportive words. I genuinely appreciate how committed you are in helping me. I was feeling completely helpless and overwhelmed. My predicament was like a behemoth challenging me to an unfair duel. I listened to your advice and sought help. However, I did not have the courage to tell anybody about my deranged stunt with the gun. But I feel I have things under control, and the answers were not as complicated as I initially perceived.

First, I had a heartfelt conversation with my father about the stumbling blocks between the two us. We went to a therapist, and much to our relief, our family dynamics
improved. The nuances between obsessive control and reassuring guidance were cleared up. After intense therapy and medication, the voices starting fleeing my mind, like the cowards that they are. I no longer have the urge to cut and harm myself. Also, looking back, I see that running away is just an ill-conceived dodge from reality. It did give me a few moments of clarity though, but it could have come at a high cost. I let my haywire emotions translate into impulses to escape. I can now confidently say I am slowly getting better.

However, my therapist said my biggest challenge is self-acceptance. I don’t like myself. I have battled with the way I look and feel from the onset of my shaky and insecure teenage years. I now have a hanging tummy, like dough, that is effortlessly stretching into a jumbo-sized pizza. My boobs are too flat. My hair is too knotty. My nose is too thick and prominent like a parrot’s beak. Some days I look in the mirror, and I stare at myself for several minutes, inspecting the bland features of my face carefully, trying to grasp a slither of something appealing. But I can’t. I still want to be a girl who can turn heads and have boys whistle at her. I want to be the life of the party, the girl who has the whole world in her palms. I want to be crowned homecoming queen and admired by others. But no. There’s just no spark in my physique, nothing special about the way I look and act. I want to for once feel sexy in my skin, but there is nothing special about me. Nothing. There is a constant struggle with trying to like me.

On top of that, I am now struggling to pull my lagging grades out of the pits. I want to get into a decent school. I am thinking of doing psychology. My desire now is to become some sort of counselor or therapist and help those who have to endure the kind of ordeal I went through. Recently I have become more organized with my homework, college applications, and SAT. I am at my desk as soon as I get home and work until another day is ready to be tucked in. The bags under my eyes have sunken deep into my flesh, looking like a fresh bruise from a fist fight. I now find myself turning down appeals to hang out. However, the stress of college seems to be a cause of the shedding of my hair, which is already thinning and coarse. And I’m always sleepy. So sleepy. It is probably because of the Melatonin or Mirtazapine that my doctor prescribed.

Simone

Dear Simone,

I am genuinely proud of you. I am pleased that you have the grit to persevere. You kept clawing your way even when the storm of devils kept raising the dirt around you, whispering in your ear that you could not do it. And you almost believed them. But you did not, and that is what makes you, not a little girl hiding beneath your bed, but a young woman finally making it, tucking in all the sloppy corners of the sheets and smoothing out all the creases of the quilt. Once you set your mind to something, you can move mountains.

I do admire this stolid determination to do well, but not at the expense of your health. Your body is like a computer that is continuously busy, with thousands of algorithms running through your cells to perform daily functions. But sometimes even computers freeze—and they just need to be refreshed and rebooted. That is what I imagine self-care to be, a reset in our otherwise chaotic lives. And no, self-care is not weakness, not indulgence; it is necessary.

You should probably treat yourself to a cruise. I went on one during Thanksgiving break. The large, rocking Royal Princess was buzzing with excitement and adventures with delightful activities, food, and decor. I spent most of my time in the spa. The prices were quite steep, but I figured that it was okay to treat myself. I enjoyed the hot stone massages, aromatherapy, and full-body wraps. It was my time to be spoiled, indulged and even beautified. I lay back, closed my eyes, and could feel the stress sail away as my body and mind experienced total peace.

It is essential to care for yourself. I know it is hard sometimes to like who you are. Trust me, I know what it is like to hate your body and to have thinning hair. Sometimes, I feel like my body is attacking me from the inside out. But we should not criticize our body like a mother yelling at her jovial child for playing. We should love it and nurture it. Be kind to yourself.

Joy

Dear Joy,

It is hard to take care of myself, but I am trying. I could not let my eyes descend into stillness for maybe five hours at night. My hands had an increasing tremble when I tried to hold psychology flashcards. My eyeballs had sunken even deeper in their sockets as if the skin around them was quicksand slowly swallowing up everything for good. You could always find me in the library, skipping every other meal, writing school essays with nervous hands, tapping my foot compulsively on the floor like a woodpecker.

I remember I was studying for a US government test in the library when I felt sudden anxiety gripping me. I started to hear my heart as if it made its way to my ears and began reverberating like pounding drumsticks. My chest felt it was shrinking but still trying to hold all the air in the room. My hands turned clammy, and my body was warming up. I was able to breathe only every other second, desperate for air that played hide and seek. I was hyperventilating through muffled sobs, and it felt like time was trapped, frantically looking for a way to move forward.

I remember the librarian's lips moving to form words, but I could not hear them. I was breathing as if I just ran suicides on the soccer field. My head was numb, and my whole body was fidgety like that of a bruised fighter dreading the next round of assault. I felt a wave of exhaustion I had never experienced before, and I collapsed. It was a panic attack. But I am hanging in there and trying to stay positive.

Simone

Dear Simone,

I am sorry you had a panic attack. You must have been terrified. I am pleased and flattered to hear you took heed of my words. I hope you know by now you are not alone and you are loved. We are like whales swallowed by the sea, but even whales need to come to the surface to breathe. I am glad you are taking better care of yourself.

Like so many girls, you seem to be in a constant war with your body. I am no exception. Trust me, I do know what it is like to sometimes hate your body. In my case, I am losing weight like a shriveling tree losing all its leaves. Sometimes I stare at myself in the mirror with loathing; I do not see any definition, just bone, and skin. In these moments, I feel like my body is a collateral damage of war.

When I met you at the hospital, I thought of you like black coffee: bitter yet invigorating. The more and more I got to know you, the more I realized that, beneath the sourness and indignation, lies a beautiful, smart, and sassy girl. Your occasional smile is like a peacock suddenly displaying all its beautiful feathers. So what if boys do not whistle at you? You are not a dog! As my favorite author, Rupi Kaur, wrote,

you tell me to quiet down cause
my opinions make me less beautiful
but i was not made with a fire in my belly
so I could be put out
i was not made with a lightness on my tongue
so i could to be easy to swallow
i was made heavy
half blade and half silk
difficult to forget and not easy
for the mind to follow

All these words mean nothing unless you unwaveringly believe in them. Look in the mirror. I mean really look at yourself. You may not think you are good enough, but remember all the times when you wanted to throw in the towel, all the times spent in darkness. How many times after getting a concussion did you tell me that you wanted to give up? But you did not. You still ran barefoot to finish the race when your shoes were taken away. That is something that should make you like yourself. Be proud of the firm, young lady you are becoming.

Joy

Dear Joy,

You are right about overworking oneself and needing a break. I decided to follow your advice. In the past, I would skip breakfast at any excuse. Now, I try to watch when and what I eat. The body and mind need to be taken care of, something I was neglecting. I started eating properly again and going to bed early enough to get eight hours of sleep.

But I still occasionally wake up drenched in sweat from anxiety attacks. I try to avoid unnecessary worries about grades, boyfriends, or the fact that I will not be a college athlete. I am content with playing pickup games at the park for the fun of it. I even apologized to Chastity and Damon, even if I knew they would shrug it off. These days, I spend more time reading books, listening to music, and going to coffee shops with my friends.

I truly appreciate everything you have done for me. I was so wrapped up in the problems that I forgot to notice the people who have been there for me, the people who were willing to stick by my side when all I gave them was hell. My family and I are not perfect, but we support each other. You were right; my family is my roots.

I have not been this serene in a long time. My grades are now all right, and I even got into a decent community college where I will major in psychology. The voices I once heard were like what you said—now merely echoes of my past pain. Your voice, like a beacon, stood out and saved me from doing the unthinkable.

I have learned to appreciate the little things, because that is what life is made of, small victories. I agree this world is indeed full of little beautiful, enchanting moments. I am starting to believe in myself too. Sure, I might not be the thinnest, the prettiest, or the wisest. But I will tell you that I am strong. And that is a form of beauty. My life is finally
starting to fit together like puzzle pieces, even if frayed and worn out around the edges.

Joy, you have been a good, generous friend to me. Thank you.

Simone

Be happy for this moment. This moment is your life.
                                                     Omar Khayyam
Dear Simone,

If you are reading this, I passed away. I am not sure how I convinced my now grieving mother to send out this last letter to you. I cannot imagine the pain she would go through in fulfilling this morbid request. I am really sorry, Simone. I mean no pain and suffering to you. I know I owe you an explanation. I will tell you the story of my life, and how I planned its conclusion. You have a very special place in its final chapter. Let me explain.

When I was young, like most children, I was terrified of the notion of death. One night, I lay in my bed, shivering from fear, as my innocent mind tried to grapple with what dying felt like. I ran to my mother’s room in tears and she comforted me, saying that I had a very long time before that would happen. But she was wrong.

Four years ago, I remember running to first base in kickball, when I started to feel a severe burning in my abdomen; I threw up and felt very weak and dizzy. Despite a couple of days of rest and pampering, the abdominal pain did not subside, and my worried mother took me to my pediatrician. Dr. Blackwell asked for blood work and some other tests. The next day, she called my mother saying that she needed to take me to a specialist because of abnormal test results.
I remember the pillows on the oncologist’s couch were plush and smelt of ancient tears. The room had a comforting feel to it, probably because the walls were filled with an expansive, completed puzzle of a lighthouse with gray ocean water smashing into it. My mother’s face was like the full moon, pale and unwavering.

Dr. Patel walked in with a breeze of antiseptic and turmeric. He sat opposite my mother, quietly organizing my papers with his steady, caramel hands. There was a pervading harshness in the air that was previously not there. He turned toward me and gave me a huge smile, but his grim eyes betrayed him. I instantly knew something was very wrong. My suspicion became a certainty when he asked me, with excessive politeness, to wait in the lobby. I took a seat closest to the consultation room. I could not help but stare at an old woman whose arm skin was sagging with no elasticity left to hang on to. But what really caught my attention was her bald head, probably the only smooth part of her body.

Suddenly I could hear my mother’s voice through the thick oak door, uncharacteristic of the usually quiet and poised woman that she was. It was a strange incarnation of her voice that I never heard. It was more of a graceless wail, and at that moment, I just knew I was dying. I do not have any earthly idea how a doctor can tell a mother that her
only child has pancreatic neuroendocrine tumor, and there was not much anybody could do about it. I pictured my mother’s face—no longer unyielding, but bursting into a million pieces. I closed my eyes and felt the walls swirling around me, and the portraits in the room detach and come crashing down. I was given just a few years to live.

Chemotherapy was hell, and it did not work. The more treatments I got, the more my face began to lose color like crumbling pastries. Seeing me half-alive killed my mother’s spirit. Before the diagnosis, my mother used to pray all the time. But she stopped cracking her knees before God. Her neck seemed too heavy from dried tears to lift her head for a futile prayer. I never saw her cross herself in her pajamas as she used to before bedtime.

I tend to hear that your body is your home. Before cancer, I decorated the walls of mine with sun-kissed colors, put beautiful vases of flowers on the tables, polished the delicate dishes, and turned the lights on. But what happens when your home is invaded? What happens when those invaders smear the walls with dark colors, smash the vase to let the flowers slowly wilt, shatter the singular china into a thousand, small, jagged pieces, and turn off the lights for good? The remissions were short-lived as the intruders kept coming back harder than ever. My body betrayed me, and it did not feel like home, nor did it ever feel like mine ever again.

Treatment after treatment failed me for almost three years, so my mother and I decided to end it all so I could live my last days as best as I could. I know when we are young, we feel like we are invincible, that we will live forever. But at only sixteen I knew that my days were numbered. It is strange to know that your death is right around the corner, like an unwelcome guest who is breathlessly silent but still occupying all the space. I want to live so badly because,
despite cancer, I did love my life filled with love and joy. But my fate is out of my control, much like the weather.

I was like every other teenager, absorbed in the major mishaps, like mascara clumping and too few likes on Insta. I went through a messy phase of denial, anger, and blame. But gradually, I began to appreciate even the smallest of blessings that life bestows upon us. So many are too busy and too focused on the negatives, so they overlook so many amazing moments and beauties they are lucky to experience.

It may not seem like it, but everybody is going to die someday. Whether it is two decades or two years, you have to make every day count. My mother planted the idea of a bucket list in my head. That night, I could hardly sleep, so I started jotting ideas down. I was inspired, and I thought of the ideas and adventures that resonate with me, what made me Joy, and what was feasible and affordable. After some musing, research, and compromises with my mother, I settled on my list.

First, I decided to plant a tree, so I know I leave something worthwhile behind. Remember Spicy Norman? Next, I wanted to lose myself in the immense power and beauty of nature, so I went to Niagara Falls in Canada. For my third adventure, I wanted to help people who did not have the luxuries and opportunities I had. This orphanage in Nepal, still recovering from an earthquake, had a good program for volunteering. My mother told me to never miss an opportunity for a good laugh, and suggested the Ellen Show, for she knew I just loved it.

I also wanted to show my appreciation for Miss Moore, for being much more than a teacher to me. The next quest on my list was about experiencing a foreign and exotic culture, and a friend from New Jersey suggested Holi, the colorful Indian festival. I always thought life would be dull without frivolities, so getting a tattoo was my little avant-garde move. I was fascinated by the inexplicable and the paranormal, so I planned a trip to England to visit the mysterious Stonehenge. And I wanted to really pamper myself, so I booked a cruise on Princess. Finally, my last bucket list item was to support somebody close going through a hard time.

Completing this list filled with adventures gave me a purpose for chasing whatever life I had left. When I met and befriended you at the hospital, your bleak perspective and desolate eyes reminded me a lot of my own predicaments, and I wanted to do something. Sorry I lied to you about getting dental work done at the hospital. Sorry I did not tell you the truth about me earlier. I did not want any more attention on me. I was tired of pity. I just wanted to live as normally as I could. I was not afraid of dying anymore. I realized that death defines life.

So, you probably guessed right, these letters are my bucket list item 10, the last but the one that made my life most worthwhile and helped my raison d’être—my attempt to help somebody close who, like me, really needed the help. I hope I made some difference.

I apologize if my letter is depressing. This is not about me dying, but about you living. My life may have been cut short, and I may have heard the banshee wails sooner than I should have, but I will tell you something: I have lived. I have been on numerous adventures and seen so many beautiful places and people.

Let the little victories be big ones for you. Do not take anything for granted. Surround yourself with good people that bring joy, laughter, and kindness to your life because life is too short to wallow in darkness. On bad days, do not
let the massive cloud over your head start pouring and dampen your spirit; take an umbrella and remember that the sun will always come back. As a woman in this world, never let anyone silence your voice—be loud and let your words move mountains. Carry yourself in a way that others admire you for, in a way that suggests that you can care for yourself with grace wherever you go. Breathe every whiff of air like it is your last and own every second this world gives you. Do not just survive, Simone; live my friend.

I am not sure if I was trying to help you, or help myself by writing to you. I am not sure if I was being self-serving or benevolent. But what I do know is that it was always a joy to receive your letter. Take care Simone and please do not grieve. I am now on my greatest adventure.

Joy