Absolutely normal, p.1
Ab(solutely) Normal, page 1
Introduction
They Call Me Hurricane by Rocky Callen
A Body with Wholes by Ebony Stewart
Spidey Sense by Nora Shalaway Carpenter
Nothing Feels No Pain by Sonia Patel
Peculiar Falls by Jonathan Lenore Kastin
Avalanche by Nikki Grimes
Beggars Would Ride by Val Howlett
My Sister Rafaela Is a Good Person
by Mercedes Ángel Acosta
Verbatim by Patrick Downes
Back of the Truck by Isabel Quintero
Don’t Go Breaking My Heart by Anna Drury
We Are Stardust by Alechia Dow
River Boy by James Bird
A Bridge over Silence by Karen Jialu Bao
Almost Beautiful by Marcella Pixley
The Call: A One-Act Play by Francisco X. Stork
About the Contributors
Resources
Acknowledgments
Dear Reader,
When we first envisioned this anthology, we had no idea that in the not-too-distant future, the US surgeon general would issue a warning about a national youth mental health crisis. Unfortunately, the need for this warning didn’t shock us. Both of our debut novels explore mental health themes, and because of this, we’ve each had numerous readers reach out to us to share their own (often silent) struggles with mental health. The more we talked about our own experiences, it seemed, the more others felt empowered to share theirs.
We weren’t always so comfortable sharing our stories, however. Like many characters in this anthology, because of prevailing stigmas surrounding mental health conditions, we felt isolated, othered, and deeply ashamed that our mental wellness didn’t appear to be as stable as other people’s.
But after each of us found the strength to seek help, we realized we weren’t alone at all. In fact, recent statistics detailing the pervasiveness of mental health struggles are staggering:
• The National Institute of Mental Health reports that an estimated 49.5 percent of adolescents have had a mental health disorder at some point in their lives.
• According to the National Alliance on Mental Illness, suicide was the second-leading cause of death for people between the ages of ten and thirty-four in the United States in 2019. Furthermore, the risk of suicide quadruples for youth who identify as gay, lesbian, or bisexual—and the risk is even more significant for transgender teens.
• Even before the pandemic and its tremendous negative impacts on mental health, a study conducted by the Pew Research Center revealed that seven in ten teenagers surveyed saw anxiety and depression as “major problems among their peers.”
• The World Health Organization asserts that half of mental health disorders appear by the age of fourteen. Unfortunately, most of them remain undiagnosed and therefore untreated, “impairing both physical and mental health and limiting opportunities to lead fulfilling lives as adults.”
The number of books featuring characters with mental health conditions is growing, but there remain a plethora of books and popular media stories in which mental health disorders are stereotyped, idealized, trivialized, or incorporated primarily to give a character a funny or memorable “quirk.” These pop culture and media portrayals too often cast people with mental health conditions as caricatures that serve a story’s plotline. We want to disrupt that trend with this collection.
For these reasons, all contributors to this anthology have lived experiences of the mental health conditions with which their protagonists struggle. They may not have an official diagnosis, but they all identify as members of the mental health community.
Limiting contributors to those who meet this criterion was a difficult decision to make. We want to be clear that lived-experience-adjacent stories (for example, stories from the point of view of a family member of someone struggling with mental health) are important. There are places in the world for those stories. But the reason this collection features only stories written by people who possess that lived experience extends beyond authentic representation. This anthology creates space for these unique experiences while honoring the characters and the authors who write them. We wanted readers to receive the unstated message this representation sends: you can struggle daily with a serious mental health condition and still live a good and full life. Still be happy. Still be creative and successful, just like the authors in this book. If our mission is to break the silence and stigma around mental health care, then this is a step in raising our collective voice.
Many stories that come to mind when people think of YA books with mental health representation focus almost exclusively on a character’s identity as having a mental health condition—either realizing it or finally accepting it or learning how to get help. And those stories are powerful and necessary. But this collection isn’t about characters reconciling with their conditions, at least not exclusively. These contributions are simply stories—varying in form (fictional prose, graphic, verse, epistolary, transcript, one-act play) and genre (contemporary, fantasy, science fiction)—whose protagonists just so happen to struggle with mental health.
Furthermore, because so many conversations surrounding mental health come at the topic from a white, male, suburban, middle-class, cisgender perspective, this collection aims to show the importance of intersectionality to an individual’s conception of mental health and that person’s access to resources. We have often discussed on panels how necessary it is to curate collections that show that mental health conditions exist within all communities, and so the authors in this book are diverse in ethnic and cultural background, gender identity, sexual orientation, religious background, age, and socioeconomic status.
The sixteen stories you’re about to read are as diverse as their creators, and run the gamut from whimsical and romantic to speculative and philosophical to raw and gritty with a deep emotional punch.
As much as we hope this anthology provides a mirror for members of the mental health community, this book is as much for people who do not struggle with mental health as it is for those who do. As the Pew study revealed, even if you don’t have personal experience with a mental health condition, you absolutely know someone who does. And more likely than not, it’s someone close to you.
One of the many incredible things about this anthology is that every single story includes some kind of relationship that makes a crucial difference to the main character. As the COVID-19 pandemic has made abundantly clear, connection matters. Relationships—of all kinds—matter. They can, quite literally, save lives.
In a call to action in December 2021, US surgeon general Vivek Murthy stated: “We’re asking for individuals to take action to change how we think and talk about mental health so people with mental health struggles know that they have nothing to be ashamed of, and it’s okay to ask for help. That stigma is so powerful still around mental health. . . . But we’re also calling for expanded access to mental health care, for increases in mental health counselors in schools and investments in social-emotional learning curricula in schools.”
We hope this book can be a step toward meeting this call. After each story, you’ll find a note from the contributor, and at the end of the book, a detailed resource section. Additionally, you can find professionally produced guides—a Guide for Educators, a Guide for Parents, and a Guide for Mental Health Professionals—on our websites, noracarpenterwrites.com and rockycallen.com. Resources are also available on our publisher’s site, candlewick.com.
Ab(solutely) Normal aims to inspire readers to let go of stigma, seek help if they need it, and live their truths proudly. These stories will uplift and empower you, break your heart and heal it so it’s stronger than before.
We hope you live your truth, dear reader, and that you recognize and honor others who are living theirs.
Thank you for reading,
Nora Shalaway Carpenter & Rocky Callen
SOURCE NOTES
p. ix: 49.5 percent of adolescents have had a mental health disorder at some point in their lives: National Institute of Mental Health, “Mental Illness,” updated January 2022, https://www.nimh.nih.gov/health/statistics/mental-illness.
p. x: suicide was the second-leading cause of death for people between the ages of ten and thirty-four: National Alliance on Mental Illness, “It’s Okay to Talk About Suicide,” https://nami.org/NAMI/media/NAMI-Media/Infographics/NAMI_Suicide_2020_FINAL.pdf.
p. x: seven in ten teenagers surveyed saw anxiety and depression as “major problems among their peers”: Pew Research Center, “Most U.S. Teens See Anxiety and Depression as a Major Problem Among Their Peers,” https://www.pewresearch.org/social-trends/2019/02/20/most-u-s-teens-see-anxiety-and-depression-as-a-major-problem-among-their-peers/.
p. x: most of them remain undiagnosed and therefore untreated: World Health Organization, “Adolescent and Young Adult Health,” January 18, 2021, https://www.who.int/news-room/fact-sheets/detail/adolescents-health-risks-and-solutions.
1. AIDA
I was born during a hurricane in the back of my parents’ faded blue 1997 Camry on the shoulder of the road. Papi had taken the wrong exit, and I feel like I have been taking wrong turns ever since. I was born in the midst of floods and endless gray and winds that howled past the car that held my mamá howling inside.
Mamá once told me that the rain was the sky’s tears of sorrow, regret, and pain. When I was little, I often sat by the window and watched as the clouds turned dark and wondered why the sky was sad that day. I would curl up and read it happy stories. I wo uld go out on the front stoop and let it soak me through just so it knew that it wasn’t alone. I would sit by the window for hours because I wanted to wait and watch for the moment when the clouds cleared and a stray beam of sunlight would reach for the earth and graze its finger across it.
I wanted the sky to be happy.
Just like I wanted Mamá to be happy.
Just like, soon after I turned ten, I wished I could be happy, too.
Mamá later told me that the sky soaked us through to our bones with its tears the day I was born. Me dio luz when the world was dark and violent. And when the sun finally appeared, we kept the sky’s tears inside our sinew and marrow. Deep, deep inside, where no one could see.
But Mamá didn’t tell me about when I was born until later.
Until it was too late.
Until it made absolute sense.
And that day, I ran out of my house and I screamed at the sky for the curse of its tears. I yelled until my voice strained and my throat ached. I cursed the sky right back until I fell to my knees and begged it to take the sorrow, pain, and regret away.
It didn’t listen.
Instead, when the rain pounded my back and bruised me with its anguish, it whispered for me to be still, to give up and give in to the mud and misery.
I didn’t listen, either.
2. AIDA
Aida “the Hurricane” Maya.
That’s me. Complete with an apodo that I didn’t choose for myself. It was a fighter’s name from years ago, whose story was rife with pain and tragedy and strength. Papi talked about him all the time. But I wasn’t named after him. Coach said the name chose me the day I was born. I cringed when Coach gave it to me a few years ago, and the team hollered with appreciation when they found out that I came screaming into the world during the biggest storm to hit Baltimore in the last two decades. They didn’t know that wasn’t why Coach named me the Hurricane. They didn’t have to know. I have bruises on my knuckles. Calluses on my palms. Cuts that itch. And a left hook that can knock any one of them out even though I am the only girl on the crew. That’s all they need to know.
I don’t open my eyes when the alarm goes off. I’m thinking about what my name would sound like on a loudspeaker before my first big fight. I am thinking if I want to keep it. I fidget with the bracelet of threads around my wrist. Breathe in. I’m here. I’m strong. I got this. Breathe out. Get the fuck out of bed.
I throw the blankets off me, snap my eyes open, and land my feet on the floor.
It’s raining. Of course it is raining.
I shove a middle finger toward the window so that the rain knows I am not here to mess around with its company. I follow my routine. My doc says that routines help on the bad days, and she’s right. It is so annoying when adults in pin-striped skirts, penny loafers, and big, sweet smiles are right. I take the meds on the bathroom counter. Mamá’s pill bottle is still full, but I can’t think about that right now. I count the seconds as I brush my teeth. I stare at the mirror and I remember my best run times, my favorite things about the week before. I dig to find anything that makes me feel solid and steady. Here.
This is part of the routine. It didn’t start smoothly. There’s a hole behind the painting above the light switch to prove it. But over the years, I have carefully constructed a dam inside. A place for all those unshed tears to live, beating against the cement and bone of the barrier. I always feel them, like a levee just one rainfall away from overflowing, but I do what I need to do to stay sure-footed, to be certain my reflexes are quick enough to redirect my thoughts whenever the cruel ones spill over.
I touch my thread bracelet again. It has been 397 days since I have thought about it, 397 days since I added a thread.
I grab my gym bag and head toward the door. I light the candle sitting on the side table with the keys and wilting flowers and leave the quiet house behind me.
The gym is all noise. It smells like leather and sweat and dreams. My dreams. Beaten into every heavy bag and bled out on the boxing ring’s mat. I’ve been in this gym nearly every day since they took Papi. Since his gloves became mine. They didn’t fit me until last year.
Jesé is sweeping when I walk in. He’s only a year older than me. His black hair spills over his forehead and the scar that I know cuts through his left eyebrow. He must have a bachata song playing in his mind because his feet move in step with the rhythm. When he looks up and spots me, he raises the broom in salute. I walk over to him, soaked from the rain, and fake a high five, then wrap him up in a hug instead.
“No manches, vieja. Get off me.”
“What? You don’t want a hug?”
“No! You are getting me all wet!” He’s annoyed. I love him annoyed. “And look at the floor!” He gestures wildly at the water I tracked all over the ground.
I squeeze him three times. Too tight. It’s like I am trying to fit all his bones into the circle of my arms. He relents, frustration defused, relaxes, rolls his eyes, and hugs me back twice. I am about to respond when Coach sees me and waves me over.
“Huracán! Come here, I’ve got news!”
“’Kay, Coach.” I let go of Jesé and whip around fast, making sure my long braid slaps him square in the jaw. He curses as I practically skip away toward the office.
Coach is behind his desk, looking down at a stack of papers. “You did it, mija.”
I raise my eyebrows, waiting for an explanation.
He comes around the desk and grasps my shoulders. “You got the fight.”
Four words. That’s all it takes to snatch the air right out of my lungs. “The fight?”
Coach smiles and nods. “The fight.”
I flop back into the chair. “I can’t believe it.” I look up at Papi’s portrait on the wall with his gloved hand raised after an eleventh-round KO with Coach right behind him. “The Golden Gloves fight.” I was undefeated in my last five matches, but Golden Gloves is the big time. If I won, I could go to Nationals, and if I won there, then international opportunities could open up to me. Those opportunities could lead to glory. To money. To being able to help Mamá. “I can’t believe it!” I jump out of the chair and hug Coach. “I won’t let you down.”
He hugs me back. “I know, mija.”
“She get you wet, too, Pops?” Jesé is by the door.
Coach’s laugh is a rumble in his chest. “Yes, she did!”
“Jes, I got the fight! I’m going to compete in the Golden Gloves tournament!”
His smile takes up almost as many zip codes as my ass, and he cranks up his deep announcer’s voice and uses the broom like a microphone before joining in on the hug. “Ha! The storm is about to hit the GG!”
He is saying something else, but I don’t hear it. Because as I hug them both, I feel it. I feel something sloshing inside me, threatening to spill over. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to ignore it.
But as the day goes on, doubt creeps in. The ugly thoughts start to seep through the tiniest cracks. I make rookie mistakes. I slip and feel unsteady. Please, please, please take these thoughts away. But they only get louder and so does the rain outside, hitting the tin roof like bullets.
Coach is on the phone getting my paperwork set up for the tournament. “Ready for this?” He smiles. He knows I am ready for this. To him, I am going places and going to take the gym’s name with me. He believes in me.
But I don’t. Not now.
I start to jump rope. Breathe. Breathe. BREATHE. But my breathing is unsteady and I start to feel a cramp in my side.
I am not ready for this fight. There is no way I am going to step into the ring in front of those judges. Gear is sanctioned by the organizers. I won’t even be able to wear Papi’s gloves. I envision how I am going to get out of it. The lies I will tell. I am too anxious to tell my coach that I am too afraid, that I am too weak, that he should have never taken a chance on me, that . . .
Stop.
Breathe in.
I feel the pressure building and the way my words are turning into violence against me, trying to shove my face down in the mud.
Breathe out.
I got this.
I’m not sure if I believe that. The jump rope skitters to a stop.
Coach slaps me on my back. “That’s right! This storm is about to strike.” Coach was a badass striker himself, but he is also cheesy as hell, just like his son.
