Tonight at Target I met a young woman. In our consumer culture interactions with retail workers are often perfunctory and routine, but what started as a simple transaction soon turned into laughter and shared commiserations. We didn’t talk very long, since she was cashiering and there was a line behind me, but the encounter stayed with me long after I left the store and came home. This letter is for her.
Dear B-,
Hi. The odds of you ever reading this are virtually nil, but after meeting you tonight I feel compelled to put this out into the world and hope that somehow, somewhere, some of this energy reaches you.
You reminded me so much of my younger self I had to stop for a minute. It wasn’t the hair or the eyeliner (although I gotta say, you rock both!) or even the piercings or tattoos, but the scars on your arms. Scars, like tattoos, are fascinating to me because they’re like illustrations on a page, a visual representation of someone’s story.
But, there’s a certain type of scar pattern that’s just a little too uniform, a little too regular to have been accidental, and that’s what I saw on you. High on your forearms, just close enough to your elbow to be covered by a pushed-up hoodie sleeve when the weather turns cold again. Shining pink lines, some thin, some thick, one after the other, over and over. Some will fade with age and the passage of time; some are going to be with you forever. How do I know? Because I have them too. A lot of them.
I wanted so much to hug you, to say something, anything to reassure you that it will get better. Go ahead, roll your eyes at that, because I know, right? It’s overused, trite as hell, and about as deep as a Diet Coke. Fuck the future, what about right now? If you’re still reading this, then I offer you my congratulations, because guess what? You’re surviving right now and some days that’s all you can do. Some days it’s a major accomplishment to get out of bed and put your clothes on. Start where you are. Use what you have. Do what you can. Do no harm, but take no shit.
I don’t know your story. I don’t know where you are in your mental health journey, whether you’ve stopped self-harming or if you’re even ready to think about asking for help. These aren’t the type of things a stranger should ask their cashier at Target, although if there’s one thing I learned from my time in retail it’s that people tend to forget about boundaries and human decency when there’s an eschewed power balance in play.
I want to offer one piece of advice I wish someone had told me when I was a teenager: Learn to be your own best friend. I realize that’s another one of those vague, nebulous statements that’s so much easier said than done, especially since we live in a culture that categorizes, commodifies, and objectifies our bodies. “Love yourself, but lose ten pounds!” Yeah, fuck that.
I’m not talking about the faux self-confidence used to sell beauty magazines and Botox, I’m talking about the deep, unshakeable sense of self that no one can touch. Find this. Nurture it every chance you get, even when it feels like sprinkling a watering can in the Sahara desert. It might take years. It might be the hardest thing you ever do. You might lose friends or lovers along the way but I promise you it’s worth it. If they don’t value you when you learn to value yourself, tell ‘em to fuck right off. Toxic people are a waste of time and energy. Self-love is the most powerful weapon you have in your arsenal, because once you know what you’re worth, you refuse to settle for anything less.
So, set your bar high. Love yourself with all the passion, devotion, and ferocity you’d want from someone else. Don’t let the bastards get you down. When they tell you to shut up nine times, scream back in their faces ten. You’re valid. You’re important. You matter. You matter.
I wish you all the love, happiness, and light in this world.
Love,
Meredith
Meredith Foster 