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Stealing Sweetness

Have you ever stolen something to fill the hole in your soul?

I have. More than once. First time was—man, I was probably still in diapers. My soul-hole goes way back. First time I got caught, though, I was old enough for those cotton undies with the elastic legs, the kind with that hard, bumpy lace around the edges. So I was seven, say. Maybe six. Too young to be a criminal, but there it is.

I found my drug early in life, and it was sugar. Candy. Dulces. Sweets. Did you know that sugar is one chemical element away from cocaine?

Sugar: carbon, hydrogen & oxygen

Cocaine: carbon, hydrogen, oxygen & nitrogen

My young body knew it. Sugar was the one thing that took me away from reality, that made everything okay. I would suffer for some sugar. When I got sent to sleepaway camp, where I was trapped in an A-frame with nobody who liked me, I had sugar sandwiches for breakfast, lunch and dinner. I’d take a slice of that soft white bread with the perfectly square corners, slather on the margarine, and just dump white sugar in the middle. A ski slope of it. I’d squish the bread edges together in my fist, so now I had a hand grenade; then I’d open my mouth and crunch my way through that sick bready pillow of salvation. I didn’t care what Buffi and Billy thought, because I wasn’t even there. I was high and away in Sugarland.

I had a lot of reality to escape, so I needed sugar around the clock.

When I say “needed,” I’m choosing my words carefully.

My fix was easy in November and December. I just climbed to the fridge-top hiding place and snagged my step-siblings’ Halloween candy. But that left ten dry months in the year. A girl gets desperate.

My heart was busting out of my chest as I looked around that five-and-dime, making sure nobody could see me. Then I grabbed the closest candy bar and stuffed it down my undies. I think it was a Zagnut. Goss. But still. I made it out of the store, into the car and all the way home before someone found me out.

Don’t ask why, once we hit home, a grownup was looking in my underwear. That’s not the point of this story. The point is, I got busted. I got driven back to that five-and-dime. And I had to go in, by myself, and tell the owner what I’d done. I also had to pay him for that Zagnut—25 cents, plus 2 cents tax!—with my own piggy bank money.

That’s okay, though. I got it back soon enough. I learned my lesson: keep the thieving close to home. I graduated to stealing change from my mother’s bag, so I could go out and buy my own damn sugar fix, legal.


Sex is all I’m good for. 5th grade told me so.

I peaked in fifth grade. That was my year to shine. All the boys liked me that year, because I undid the bottom buttons of my burnt sienna top, then tied the corners in a knot over my belly button.

I loved that top. It had gold threads woven through it in a tic-tac-toe pattern. It was made to go to the disco. I was sitting at my desk playing with it one day before lunch, undoing and redoing the buttons, when I got the idea to tie the edges in a knot, like the dancers on Soul Train.

Then Mr. Scheer called lunch so I stood up. And Steve O’Connell looked at me, then Jeffrey Frohan did, then Keith O’Grady and Nick Dimitris did, and I understood what I’d been searching for my whole life: that feeling. It was the opposite of someone looking at me with annoyance, a feeling I knew in my bones. It was someone looking at me like…like they liked me. Sweet-sweet-better-than-candy-bars rush, they liked me.

I’d never had that feeling before. Nobody liked me. But suddenly the cutest boys in fifth grade did, because I showed my belly. Nobody had to tell me that’s why. I just knew.

My disco shirt was my new good luck charm. I started wearing it three times a week. Next thing you know, Jeffrey Frohan was serenading me in the lunchroom with that top 40 song, “Take Your Time—Do It Right.” Everyone watched really closely, especially the girls who always said they had too many for hopscotch, that I should go hopscotch by myself.

Everyone was sitting down except Jeffrey, who was standing right next to me, singing. About doing it. To me. I felt like Miss America. Nobody had to tell me this meant Jeffrey was my boyfriend now. I just knew.

The day Jeffrey came over my house was the first day I walked right up my driveway, no shame. Who was gonna laugh at my shitty house? Who was gonna make mooing noises at my back? Nobody was, because I had a boyfriend with me.

My mother smiled and made us ice cream cones, a bigger miracle than Jesus pushing that boulder aside and rising from the dead. My mother was a snapper and a spanker, not a smiler and a scooper. But a boy was at the house. A boy changed everything.

For one glorious week, I was popular. I was Jeffrey’s, so I was worth something. At recess I had a place to sit: on the sidelines of the kickball game, in my burnt sienna shirt, calling out, “Go, Jeffrey!” when he caught or kicked the ball.

But then he invited me to his house. And told his mom we were gonna do homework. And his mom let us go to his room. And close the door. Jeffrey put on a tape of the Do It song, but I didn’t feel like Miss America anymore, when there was no crowd to watch him sing to me.

I backed away from him in a horseshoe shape, shuffling my butt along the carpet, following the edge of his bed. The more he sang, the closer in he leaned. Finally, I shuffled my back up to the wall. When he leaned in, I had nowhere to lean back. His lips were a “do it” away from mine.

And I said, “No.”

Jeffrey got up and clicked the song off. He opened the door to his room and walked out. When I got downstairs his mom said, “You don’t feel good, Cyndy? I’ll take you home.”

The next day at school, there was no open spot at the lunch table. The boys didn’t get out the kickball. I had to play hopscotch alone.

Somebody should have told me that “No” ruins everything. I never knew.


Kid, bye.

Have you ever felt like your parents wanted to get rid of you?

My mother got rid of me, but good. I had just turned 14 when she locked me up in a warehouse. Straight Inc., the place was called. I was trapped there for 16 months.

Her husband had been beating me up. I guess she got sick of my screams.

Straight billed itself as a drug rehab for kids. The weird thing was, out of of the hundreds of us in there, like three of us had done more than drink a beer, smoke a joint.

But to Straight, every teen was a druggie. At least, every teen whose parent had a checkbook and a desire to disappear them….

My mother told me she was taking me to a boarding school. Picturing green lawns and window seats, I got in the car. I let her and her husband drive me across six states.

But then I stepped into the Straight building, and everything felt wrong. Like carnival music played backwards. The few kids I saw had shirts tucked in, robot eyes. The adults had clenched jaws and clipboards.

I was a strong kid, a loud kid. I was used to being able to at least fight back.

There was no fighting back at Straight.

My mother said goodbye; said she was leaving me there. I tried to bum rush her. Seven people–three girls, four guys–grabbed my arms, my legs, my Levi’s waistband. They held tight.

When I tried to scream, they clamped hands over my mouth. When I tried to bite, it felt like they’d stolen my teeth.

I learned quick that I couldn’t use my teeth at Straight. Or my screams. Or my fight. All I could do was tell those hundreds of kids, “My mother was right. I am a drug addict.” All I could do was lie, and swear it was the truth.


Is it me? Is it you?

I lived the nightmare.

When I was a kid, my mother and her husband abused the fuck outta me.

At 12, I hit puberty and started fighting back.

At 13, I ran away and was homeless.

At 14, my mother locked me up in a “troubled teen” program, Straight Inc., that’s been called “a concentration camp for throwaway teens.”

I was trapped there for 16 months, being abused in ways you can’t even imagine. I saw a lot of blood. I heard a lot of bodies, breaking. I wasn’t allowed to scream. I wasn’t allowed to move.

When I got out, I wanted to kill myself, quickly.

Instead I did it slowly, by having mean sex with guys who hated me.

I started my life with other people abusing me. Then I learned to do it for myself.

Today, thanks to a lot of therapy and a decision to spend my life helping kids like me, I’m way better. Today, my life is almost perfect.

This is a blog about me, but maybe it’s also about you.

There are so many of us who have been hurt by people with power and control.

In my blog, in my books, I describe what hurt me, and how I survived.

If you’ve been hurt, and you want to know how to survive, come on. Get reading.


Boxing for Girls

My husband broke the gender divide down for me. “The difference between guys and girls is: guys fight by punching each other. Somebody wins; the problem’s over. Girls fight by talking to other girls. Nobody ever wins. The problem never ends.”

I know this smacks of gender stereotyping. Apologies. But some traits came down to us from the cavepeople. And is he wrong? He’s not. I don’t know if it’s nature or nurture, but us chicks, we’re like, still too gentle to tell another chick we’re pissed off. Instead, we tell all our friends we’re pissed, and win the fight that way: by making everybody else hate her, too.

One of my teen clients was the center dot in that bulls-eye recently. Let me tell you about her. She’s the definition of cool. Great hair, half smile, and AE clothes, but not too tight or short. She even has a girl name that doubles as a boy name. And here’s the rub: she doesn’t know how fucking cool she is. She thinks she’s a semi-loser, lucky to be orbiting in her mean-girl friends’ circle. Oh, Jordan*.

This awesome humility is exactly what makes Jordan a target. The shitty human is forever trying to boost itself by squelching its superior (see: Adolf Hitler. Donald Trump. All of Taylor Swift’s boyfriends). And the superior, naturally humble and innocent, is easily squelched. At least, the first few times.

Jordan comes to me with the half-smile gone: “My three best friends won’t talk to me, and I don’t know why!” All she knows is the one friend (who, it turns out, is the most popular in the group, because she’s so skinny, and the least popular with the boys, because she’s too skinny) is mad at her. Nobody will tell Jordan WHY Slim is mad, but they’re happy to send texts like, “Slim is SO mad at you.”

Ping! Ping! goes Jordan’s cell phone, each text the same message with new words. Poor Jordan thumbs out, “Why?”–SEND–each time, helpless and confused. I’m working real hard to not pull a Mama Bear on these tweeny bitches.

After a struggle, I manage to pry the phone from Jordan’s shaking hand. And I even get her to listen to me.

Me: “Jordan. Me. Over here. We got this.” If she was the kind of girl who needed eyeliner, it would be smudged all down her face. “Check this out. You know that one guy the girls all looooove?”

Jordan: (sniff) “Yeah.”

Me: “Does he act like he loves them back?”

Jordan: “Um. No.”

Me: “How does his ignoring them make them act?”

Jordan: “Like they love him even more.”

Me: “Exactly! Sad fact of human nature: we want most whatever doesn’t want us. Which is why you’re race-texting back these ‘friends’ who are dissing you. You want them to want you back?”

Jordan: (sob) “Yes!”

Me: “Then be that guy all the girls love. Act like you don’t give a shit. Now. In case this takes a minute, do you have other friends you can hang out with at school tomorrow?”

Jordan: (gulp) “Um, yeah…my friend Tyler and his lacrosse friends….”

Me: “Bingo. Ready? Here we go….”

Cell phone: PING!

Text Message: “Slim said find another lunch table.”

My Thumbs on Jordan’s Phone: “Alrite”

Jordan: “NO!”

Me: “Watch.”

Cell Phone: PING!

Text Message: “And don’t come to her party fri”

My Thumbs: “Got other plans”

Jordan: “Aaaaah!”

Me: “Wait.”

Cell Phone: PING!

Text Message: “JK”

Cell Phone: PING!

Text Message: “Jord, it’s Slim”

Cell Phone: PING!

Text Message: “Want to match outfits tomorrow?”

Me: “See?”

Jordan: Smile. A full one, that time.

Oh, and by the way? I am in no way JK. It was that fast. Lightening. Shit works.

(*Jordan isn’t her real name. Her real name is way more badass.)


The Zen of I Don’t Give a Shit

She pretty much hates you by now.

Let’s just go ahead and rip the bandaid off, k? This is gonna hurt, but only for a second. Ready? Here’s the suck: no matter how hard you try to make people like you, you might not end up liked.

Face that possibility, and it can’t get any worse. So all it can do is get better. See how that works? Either way now, you’re gonna be fine.

The first lesson of Buddhism is this: life is hard. Don’t expect easy. Accept that idea, and boom! Life’s a lot easier. If you stop expecting good, you’re fine when it doesn’t come.

But then, guess what happens? When you stop expecting good, good starts coming. It’s magic.

So let’s apply this concept to high school popularity. You’ve faced the fact that people might never like you (harsh). So you stop trying to make people like you (sad). Now you’re putting out that, “Meh, whatever to y’all” vibe (cool). And since you don’t care if they like you, they start…liking you (sweet).

This is boring and philosophical. We need some color. So here ya go. Meet Jack.

Jack had flat black hair and a Cabbage Patch Kid body. He wasn’t an athlete. He wasn’t a Popular Kid. He wasn’t an anything, officially.

And yet…Jack’s girlfriend was Whitney, the human Barbie doll. Jack was on auto-invite for every kegger.  Jack had the teachers laughing at the shit that got everyone else detention. Because Jack had popularity Zen. He didn’t give a fuck what we thought of him.

Here’s what Jack did, instead of giving a fuck: he left the party to dance, alone, in the middle of the street. He wore a hazmat suit to school one random Thursday. He pinched my boob through my old lady costume on Halloween and said, “Nice falsies.” Then he cutely blushed when I said, “They’re not false.”

Jack didn’t drink, but he was neither righteous nor ashamed about it. Actually, he wasn’t righteous or ashamed about anything. He just…was, and we could take it or leave it. And because of that, we loved him. A lot.

So here’s a review of today’s lesson.

A) They might never like you. Face it.

B) Find other stuff to think about. Anything but Them, and whether They like you.

C) Watch as They fall at your feet.



Love Letter, Part II

That scroll is gonna read, “You Little Shits!”

I don’t make a secret of the fact that I like all you guys, and un-like adults. But I thought I’d break it down a little, give you my reasoning. It’s because adults are full of shit. And you’re not.

Sorry to my legions of adult readers out there, but you can kind of fug off.

Okay, back to you guys. Do you know an adult who’ll admit when they’re wrong? How about one who will listen to what you say? Or–this one’s, like, the Loch Ness Monster–one who can “self-reflect” and “claim responsibility”? Yeah, that thing. The one you’re always getting in trouble for not doing. You don’t, do you. Know an adult like that. It’s okay. I don’t, either.

Next question: do you know any teens who’ll do those things? I really want an answer to that one. I want to know how you guys see each other. But first, I’m gonna tell you what I see.

I see teens being bald-face honest about their faults. I see teens calling each other out on bullshit (yes, r/teenagers, I’m talking to you)…and I see the bullshitter coming back with, “Yeah, I see your point.” I see teens not trying to hide it when they’re psyched, or bored, or madly in love. (Oy, with the high school hallways on Valentine’s Day.)

Today I saw some teens who’re taking it to a new level. A friend of mine is a teacher at a juvenile detention facility. I imagine life might suck a little, for her students. I imagine if I were them, I’d be pissed at the world. But then, I’m an adult.

So my friend set up a blog to post her students’ writing. Here’s some of the mind-bogglingly honest, self-reflective stuff they have to say.

From “Lock Up”: “If I had a choice, I would choose to be at C—- (name of facility withheld) because you are safe here and you can still talk to your parents through mail and talk on the phone and you get food three times a day…It’s like home, except you have to stay in a cell and do what they want you to do. You still get to go to school and get to find other ways to get out of your cell.”

Get to. This kid is locked up, and he’s finding stuff to be grateful for.

In “The Boy Who Survived in the Wilderness,” we’ve got the anti-bragger: the kid who, even in fiction, makes the hero not-quite-perfect: “They went outside and hung an old tarp target on a old bale of hay. Daddy showed him how to knock the arrow onto the string and how to aim for the big dot in the middle of the tarp. The first couple of times he didn’t do so well, he missed the target all together. But finally he got the hang of it and before dark Braxton was hitting bull’s eye almost every shot.”

Almost every shot. Not every shot, but almost.

From “Mistakes”: “I have lived with my grandmother for fifteen years and I treated her like crap. I always blamed her for my mother’s mistakes. Now, since I am getting older, I am starting to realize it wasn’t my grandmother’s fault…Now I am sitting in detention because I started blaming my grandmother again for my mother’s mistakes.”

Now just for contrast, here’s what adults have to say about why they’re locked up. This quote, from a nurse at an adult prison, is a Q and A from the Ask Me Anything forum. Yeah, I’m reddit-happy today. So what.

Q: Do you get told what they’re incarcerated for? Is it in their chart in some way, or do you just learn from guards, or their own disclosure?

A: It’s not in their chart, but we can ask the officers or look them up on the DOC website. It’s an if-you-wanna-know kind of thing. If you ask them, they’ll likely lie to you, in my experience.

You see what I’m saying?

Now here’s my no-bullshit: I appreciate all you teens who tolerate my adult-assed presence in the classroom and online. My life might suck without you.

Oh, and PS: if you want to read that blog yourself, it’s here: If you go, leave ’em a comment. I’m sure they’ll be grateful for that, too.



Here’s Why You Don’t Suck

Okay, maybe she sucks.

I’m subbing for the librarian, so you know the kids in this class are the good guys. If you choose “library science” as your elective, you’re a poindexter. Truth.

So I ask these scrub-faced seniors to confirm or deny my suspicion. “Does it seem,” I say, “that most adults are mad at you before you’ve done anything wrong?”

They’re such goodies, they think about it a sec before nodding.

“Yeah,” lacrosse-star-guy says. “Soon as you walk into CVS they’re tailing you, like you’re going to pocket a travel toothpaste.”

A girl with Heidi braids chimes in. “All but, like, one of my teachers hates me.” She has a cello case next to her. How do you hate the kid who plays cello?

I’m on a mission to prove the teen-haters wrong. This blog is how I’m going to do it. Here’s exhibit A.

I am stupid. I walk my dogs without leashes. One of my dogs is a master hunter. He was the homeless guy; he’s had to hunt for food. So we’re walking on this path that follows a stream. Next to the stream is a set of woods. Next to the woods is a major road.

A deer screeches across our path and into the woods. My dogs—my precious, everything dogs—screech after it. They’re gone. All that’s left is the woosh of nearby traffic.

Understand me, I am flipping the eff out. My babies will get killed by cars, and I’m helpless. If I go into the woods and head left, what if they went right? Or vice versa? If I’m screaming their names and moving, how will they find me, the moving target? And if military logic says a lost soldier stays in his last known location, shouldn’t I stand still and scream their names? Okay, flipping. The eff. Out. And screaming.

A human figure comes limping toward me from a quarter mile away. Through the woods. In a leg cast.

“I was out feeding the cows and heard you. You okay?” this Superman of a teen says.

“My dogs!” I gack out.

“Oh, they won’t get to the road,” says Super. “That road’s a way off.”

Then he limps his broken ass off through the prickers. The poison ivy. The ticks. In a leg cast. Two minutes later I hear, “They’re coming!” And there’s my babies, barreling at me with slathery grins.

I force this kid to tell me where he lives, practically at gunpoint. I will be giving him that 20 in my wallet.

Pull up to his house, knock on the rattly screen door, and a big guy with a beer answers. I compliment him on the job he’s done raising his son; he goes, “My son? Bah.”

So broken-legged kid rescues two dogs, puts hysteria-lady on ice, and tries to wave off a free $20. In exchange, from the adults, he gets “Bah” and a gun to the head. And it’s teens that are sucky? To that, I say this: bah.


Social Teflon for Teens, Part II: Spin the Wheel

Lucky kids’ popularity cycle

Well, that was kind of rude. I tell you to go feel good about your thing and then I ditch, without a word on how to do it. SOR-ry (to the tune of the doorbell, DING-dong). Well, chopchop. Let’s get on that.

First, some background info on feeling good about yourself. If you’re lucky, you grew up in this, like, recycling symbol of affirmation, above. Go. Read. Now.

Not so lucky? Me either. My recycling symbol was more like this:

1) You’re (choose as many as apply) ignored/resented/abused/belittled at home

2) Your day-1 self-perception: “I’m unlikable”

3) Because you’ve never known “being liked,” you put off a “Please like me, but I know you won’t” vibe

4) Your belief that people can’t like you tells the world, “This kid’s a weird one”

5) You have no friends, which reinforces…

6) Your self-perception: “I’m unlikable”

The problem with recycling symbols? They have no end. Each step in the cycle makes the next one happen, every time. So unless you got Brady Bunch lovin’ as a tiny tot, you’re socially screwed, right? Forever alone. SOR-wait! Stop right there!

There are ways to break the recycling symbol. Jerkoffs toss their 98%-post-consumer-waste water bottles out car windows every day, don’t they? They do. And if jerkoffs can break the chain, so can you. All you’ve got to do is reset your spin cycle.

The start of the loop was “We don’t like you,” and that thing kept on spinning. But jam a wrench in there–a message that contradicts the spin–and it snaps to a halt. It might not be easy; it might not be cute. But you can turn that machinery around.

Okay loudmouth, you’re thinking. It’s impossible to make people like me, and to solve that problem, I’ve gotta…make people like me?

Yeah, I guess I am saying that. And yeah, I know it sounds like psychobabble. But–and here’s where I don my top hat and tails, and jump up on my box–I know it can be done. Because–wait for it–I did it myself! And you can too, for the low, low price of…$0.

Just stick with me. Come back next time, with your mind open and your cynicism in check. We’ll get ya there, you and me. We’ll get ya to the top of the social heap in no time. Just you wait.



Social Teflon for High Schoolers, Part I

He was a high school loser, never made it with a lady.

Those kids who have nobody to sit with at lunch. They still exist, right? Psyche. I know they do, ‘cuz I see their posts on Reddit. I always give them the same 3 lines of advice, but there’s a motherload where that came from. So here ya go. Part I in a series on how to shake your status as a high school loser.

So, this one kid? Frankenstein in Coke bottle glasses. Complete with the shuffle. And every other kid in the room has a cool haircut, if you know what I mean. Before class even starts I’m cringing for the Frankenstein, knowing that he’s the puck, and the cool guys are the sticks.

The computers are in a horseshoe around the room. All the other guys get on them and start their projects, but not weird Frank. Frank wanders around, talking to himself as the rest of the guys talk to each other. Every once in a while Frank stops, leaning in and watching over someone’s shoulder.

I encourage him to find his own computer, because some verbal sniper is about to lay him flat. How long are they going to tolerate the eyeballs on their work, the mumble in their ears? But Frank comes back with an ironclad excuse: “The program’s still loading.” And because I’m the anti-control freak, I can’t command him, “SIT DOWN.” He’s not doing anything wrong. Plus, the worst thing I could do to the kid would be to call more attention to him. So I sit. And I watch. And I learn.

I’m shocked to see that the cool guys don’t mind Frank. I’m extra-shocked that Frank doesn’t mind himself. And that’s his golden ticket.

It dawns on me like this. When I ask Frank to find a computer, he doesn’t freeze. He doesn’t look down. He doesn’t do any of the terrified-kid-in-the-spotlight moves. Instead, he keeps his eyes on some kid’s computer. As in, “I’m fine with what I’m doing. Got nothing to hide.”

Then, when that kid turns to the guy next to him, Frank doesn’t move along, knowing he’s about to get ragged on. And therefore, he’s right. He’s not about to get ragged on. The kid asks the guy how to graph a rhomboid or something.

All through the class, Frank does stuff that gets other kids ridiculed. And all through class, his classmates don’t raise an eyebrow. Because Frank is cool with his weirdness. That shit is armor.

You know the fat kid who’s picked on for being fat? He’s putting out a Damn, I’m fat vibe. Know that other fat kid who’s wicked funny, who everyone wants to be friends with? He’s putting out a Damn, I’m funny! vibe. That’s the only diff.

So here it is, a nice little vitamin pill. The prescription for losing your high school loserdom. Feel fine about your thing. Weird? Fat? Dorky? Loud? Awesome. Fuck what anyone else thinks, in the friendliest way possible. They’ve got their own thing, you’ve got yours. Both are cool. Believe that, and you’re teflon.