Punk 57(109)

When I was nine I had a routine every Sunday night. At about six o’clock, after dinner, I would start to gather all of my hygiene products: shampoo, conditioner, soap, loofah, clippers, nail file... I’d line up everything on the window sill above the bathtub, and for the next hour, I’d bathe.

That’s right. I was in the bathroom, cleaning, scrubbing, and making sure every damn piece of hair smelled like a lily-scented brook in a mountain meadow for an hour. Then I’d finally emerge and begin the moisturizing and nail cleaning process.

Good grief, right? But wait, there’s more.

Then I spent ten minutes flossing and brushing, and even more time picking out my clothes, which of course had to be ironed and laid out for Monday morning. It was a new week, and it was a new me. I was going to have more friends. I was going to be with the popular girls. People would like me.

Because in my nine-year-old head, the bath washed away more than the daily grime. It washed away the old me, and somehow, because I polished up my appearance, my personality would magically be different, too.

This went on for about a year. More than fifty Sundays of high hopes, and more than fifty Mondays ending with not a damn thing different than it was the previous week. No amount of soap and water, perfect nails, or pretty hair could change what I hated about myself on the inside.

That I was timid. That I was uptight and never broke rules. That I felt so uncomfortable in large groups and couldn’t talk easily with people. That my music and movie choices weren’t like the average kid.

Plain and simple: I didn’t fit in.

I had nothing in common with other kids around me and being limited to my small environment, I couldn’t find anyone I did have things in common with. I constantly felt like I didn’t belong. Like I was crashing a party and people were just waiting for me to get the hint and leave.

That was until I met you. We started hanging out and talked about everything. Every day at recess, we’d walk around the perimeter of the field and chat about stuff we had in common. You were kind and funny, you listened to me and didn’t make me feel pressured or awkward. I was glad to finally have a friend.

Until I started wondering why I didn’t have more.

We’d keep walking and talking, but sooner or later, my eyes would drift over to where everyone else was playing and laughing, and I’d start to feel left out again. What made them so special to be crowded with people? Why did they seem happier and a part of something better? What were they doing and how were they behaving that I wasn’t?

I came to the conclusion that I needed to see myself as better before I could be better. And by better, I mean popular. In putting myself on a pedestal with whatever nasty behavior I could, I believed I was elevating myself. And in a way, I guess I was. Being mean got those friends I thought I wanted.

Now, there’s nothing I can say that makes what I did to you alright. I know that. Even a kid knows how to be nice. But I wanted you to know that I’m sorry. I was wrong, and I regret what I did. It was the first act in a long line of acts that made me a very unhappy girl, and I see now how valuable one good friend truly is and how little those popular kids actually mean in the big, wide world.

I can’t change the past, but I will do better in the future.

I’m sorry if I bothered you. If you’re reading this and wondering why I dwelled on something that was perhaps so insignificant to you. Maybe you’re surrounded by a great life and tons of happiness, and I’m not even a memory.

But if I hurt you, I’m sorry. I want you to know that.

You were a good friend, and you deserved better. Thank you for being there for me when I needed you. I wish I’d done the same.



Love,

Ryen





If you’re reading this, then hopefully that means you finished the book. And if that’s the case, then I’m very glad.

Punk 57 was a different book to write, and a difficult one. We romance readers can be very hard on our heroines. We often see ourselves in those roles and compare their decisions to the decisions we would’ve made instead. We tend to judge them more harshly than we do the heroes, because we hold them to the same expectation we hold ourselves. This is why many heroines are often innocent, timid, and kind with good hearts. Seeing those women find their power is a fun journey. They’re easy to love.

Ryen, on the other hand, was not. Especially in the first few chapters.

Knowing this, of course I was very scared. I only hoped you’d stick with her long enough to see her come around and eventually be proud of her.

Ryen’s need for recognition, adoration, and inclusion echoes with us all. We see it all the time. No kid wants to be different. They want to belong, they desire the approval of others, and they, most often, aren’t yet mentally strong enough to be able to stand alone. As we get older, though, most of us develop that capability. We learn that nothing feels better than truly loving yourself, even if it means those around you do not. We joyously find that we just don’t give a damn anymore.

And it feels pretty great.

But most of us have done things—unfair things—in the name of self-preservation. That’s the story I wanted to tell. Ryen hating who she was, trying to be different and trying to find a way for people to finally see her, but then discovering that she hates herself even more. Lying to yourself never moves you forward.

Thank you for reading, and thank you for (hopefully) finishing the story. And to anyone out there who might’ve related to what some of the characters went through—just remember: it gets better, you are important, and you can’t be replaced.