Dear Lena,
Initially, I wanted to open this message explaining how much your work means to me. And after reading Famesick, how much you mean to me. But yesterday, as I was scrolling through Instagram, I saw this video: a guy explaining to his followers how his own head is now narrating his life in your voice after listening to your audiobook. You are the voice of a generation indeed.
Relating to your work on Girls and your first book was so easy. The awkward sex, the rejection, the confusion, the urge to become something great, misunderstanding friendships, the misconception of your own unique experiences, ill-fitting clothes, greasy hair, and parents just doing their best.
Eagerly waiting for Famesick to come out, I started wondering how I was ever going to relate to the rest of your story. The story of a famous lady who has been under scrutiny, but also praised by many; who can live wherever she pleases, dates a Brit, and lives comfortably in London; who has skin like the porcelain doll with black bangs and a bob that I used to carry around with me as a kid; and, let’s not forget, who is friends with Taylor Swift.
The undeniable urge to create, but a body that refuses you any function. The absence of diagnosis or comparable cases, the fear, our beds in which we lie but have never felt emptier, the isolation, and the mental dread that constantly floats above us. And let’s not forget the pain.
I have a rare condition called Trigeminal Neuralgia. I am also lucky enough to have an atypical version. It’s also referred to as “suicide pain,” since the face pain episodes, which often last for days on end, are unbearable. It’s triggered by mundane things like the light breeze that refreshes you on a spring day, a strand of hair poking your cheek, chewing, smiling, talking, brushing your teeth, putting on makeup, kissing, drinking, and sometimes even the stream of breath that caresses the skin beneath my nose. I live in pain every day. And on the worst days, all I can do is sit up and try to ignore the rotting feeling and zaps in my teeth; the pain in my jaw, like it’s been ripped off and put back in place by a giant; the imploding pressure in my temple; the long, sharp pain in my eye socket; the deep ache draped over the right side of my skull; and the knife stabs catching me off guard as I’m trying not to chew my soft food. I will stare at a wall and visualise that there are tiny men scrubbing my nerves clean, revealing their perfect golden structure, and releasing me from this nightmare.
My medication puts me in hospital feeling. constantly detached, or, as it’s often referred to; derealisation. I often feel like the people around me are actors seated in front of a backdrop and I am watching my arms like I’m in a POV open-world game. I hold cups of tea against the right side of my face wherever I can obtain one, just like you’d lie next to any heater you could find.
I wanted to point out how out of luck I have been, although that’s a bit weird right now since I just found a fully functioning Mac Pro in the trash.
Anyway, what I am trying to say is thank you. I have never felt more seen by a piece of media than I have by your book. I want you to know that it fills me with joy to read that, in spite of yourself and your body, you did it. You’ve created another unprecedentedly important piece of work. At least to me, you have. And as a chronically ill artist myself, it gives me the strength and belief that we are not defined by our illness and that we still matter, if not more than ever.
I have always loved you, and always will, just like many others. I hope the love we have for you weighs more than all the hate you have received.