A Taste of Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul III Read online

  Why didn’t my mother want me? I wondered. Teachers and friends’ parents always wore a look of pity when my father picked me up from parties, came alone to plays and parent-conference day and talked to them to arrange car pools. Hating their pity, I’d mix the few minutes my mother did give me with my imagination. Then I’d casually talk about her at lunch or at friends’ houses so they wouldn’t see that all I had was a ghost mother who touched my life only in memories.

  Although it was tough at first, my father tried to do everything he could to fill the gaps my mother left. He put my brother and me first, at times sacrificing his own happi­ness for ours. Despite losing his wife and marriage, my father wore a smile on his face. After all, he was the person we looked toward to tell us everything was going to be okay, so we couldn’t see him sad. He had no spouse to pick up where he left off or to help him with daily issues and unexpected situations. He took us to the doctor, ­listened to our problems and helped us with homework. He was there with treats when my friends slept over and told the kind of dumb fatherly jokes that made us laugh and roll our eyes. He was always at all my school plays and softball games. He never missed a gymnastics meet or recital. Most fathers never took off work to come to even one of these things; my father was at all of them. Most of all, he was always conscious of my disappointments and tried to make a bad situation better. After a while, all the people who pitied me noticed my father’s intense interest in my well-being and realized, as I did, that though my life was different, there was nothing wrong with it or me. In time, I adjusted to this. And though I never stopped wishing my mother were a more central part of my life, I saw the fact that she wasn’t; she was just a part of who I am.

  In recent years, I have become closer with her. I accept her for who she is, regardless of the fact that she wasn’t always the mother I wanted her to be. As I have gotten older, I can look at what she did from a different perspective. And I think I’ve reached this point because my father taught me to be understanding of and sensitive to others. I’ve realized it’s okay not to have a storybook home with a mom, dad, two kids and a dog. Who said that is the defi­nition of family? My home may have been unique, but it had in it the same love and loyalty as other families.

  Michele Bender

  Terri Jackson

  It is easy to laugh; it is so easy to hurt; it takes strength to be kind and gentle.

  Anonymous

  On the first day of sixth grade, I sat in my quiet homeroom class and observed all the people who I would eventually befriend and possibly graduate with. I glanced around the room and noticed that the majority of the middle-class kids were dressed in their nicest first-day outfits. My glance stopped on a shy-looking girl in the back of the room. She wore a stained, yellow plaid shirt with a pair of frayed jeans that had obviously had several owners before her. Her hair was unusually short and unwashed. She wore dress shoes that were once white, and frilly pink socks that had lost their frill with too many wearings. I caught myself thinking, “That’s disgusting. Doesn’t she know what a bathtub is?” As I looked around, I figured others were probably thinking the same thing.

  The teacher began checking the attendance, each person casually lifting his or her hand as names were called in turn.

  “Terri Jackson?” the teacher asked, following the roll with her finger. Silence. “Um, Terri Jackson?”

  Finally we heard a meek answer from the back of the room, followed by the sound of ripping cloth. We all shifted in our seats to see what had happened.

  “Scary Terri ripped the armpit of her shirt!” one boy joked.

  “Eww, I bet it’s a hundred years old!” another girl commented. One comment after another brought a roar of laugher.

  I was probably laughing the loudest. Sadly, making Terri feel insecure made me feel secure and confident. It was a good break from the awkward silence and un­comfor­table first-day jitters.

  Terri Jackson was the joke of the whole sixth grade that year. If we had nothing to talk about, Terri’s trip through the lunchroom was an entertaining conversation starter. Her grandma-looking dress, missing front tooth and stained gym clothes kept us mocking and imitating her for hours.

  At my twelfth birthday party, ten giggly, gossipy girls were playing Truth or Dare, a favorite party game. We had just finished a Terri Jackson discussion. It was my turn at the game.

  “Umm . . . Sydney! Truth or Dare?” one of my friends asked.

  “How about a dare? Bring it on. I’ll do anything.” Oh, if only I’d known what she was about to say.

  “Okay, I dare you to invite Terri Jackson over to your house next Friday for two whole hours!”

  “Two whole hours?! Please ask something else, please!” I begged. “How could anybody do that?” But my question was drowned out by a sea of giggly girls slapping their hands over their mouths and rolling on the floor, trying to contain their laughter.

  The next day, I cautiously walked up to Terri as if her body odor was going to make me fall over dead. My friends huddled and watched from a corner to see if I would follow through with the brave dare.

  I managed to choke out, “Hey Scary—I mean Terri—you want to come over for two hours Friday?” I didn’t see her face light up because I had turned to my friends and made a gagging expression. When I was satisfied with their laughter of approval, I turned back to Terri. Terri’s face was buried in her filthy hands; she was crying. I couldn’t stand it. Half of me felt the strongest compassion for her, but the other half wanted to slap her for making me look so cruel and heartless. That was exactly what I was being.

  “What’s got you all upset? All I did was invite you over,” I whispered, trying not to show my concern.

  She looked up and watched my eyes for what seemed like forever. “Really?” That was all she could say. Her ­seldom-heard voice almost startled me.

  “I guess so, if you’re up to it.” My voice sounded surprisingly sincere. I’d never seen her flash her toothless smile so brightly. The rest of the day I had a good feeling, and I was not dreading the two-hour visit as I had before. I was almost looking forward to it.

  Friday rolled around quickly. My time with Terri passed by in a flash as the two hours slipped into four hours, and I found myself actually enjoying her company. We chatted about her family and her battles with poverty. We discovered that we both played violin, and my favorite part of the afternoon occurred when she played the violin for me. I was amazed by how beautifully she played.

  I would love to tell you that Terri and I became best friends and that from then on I ignored all my other friends’ comments. But that’s not how it happened. While I no longer participated in the Terri bashings and even tried to defend her at times, I didn’t want to lose everyone else’s acceptance just to gain Terri’s.

  Terri disappeared after the sixth grade. No one is sure what happened to her. We think that she may have transferred to a different school because of how cruelly the kids treated her. I still think about her sometimes and wonder what she’s doing. I guess all I can do is hope that she is being accepted and loved wherever she is.

  I realize now how insecure and weak I was during that sixth-grade year. I participated in the cruel, heartless Terri-bashing sessions because they seemed kind of funny in a distorted way. But they were only funny because they falsely boosted my own self-confidence; I felt bigger by making someone else feel smaller. I know now that true confidence is not proven by destroying another’s self-esteem, but rather, by having the strength to stand up for the Terri Jacksons of the world.

  Sydney Fox

  A Name in the Sand

  The influence of each human being on others in this life is a kind of immortality.

  John Quincy Adams

  I sit on the rocky edge of a boulder, letting my feet ­dangle in the stillness of the water, and gaze out at the rippling waves crawling into shore like an ancient sea ­turtle. A salty mist hangs above the water, and I can feel it gently kissing my face. I lick my lips and can taste the fa
miliar presence of salt from the ocean water. Above my head seagulls circle, searching the shallow, clear water for food and calling out to one another. And in my hand rests. . . .

  The sound of a hospital bed being rolled down the hallway outside my mother’s hospital room brought me out of my daydreams. The ocean was gone and all that was left was a bare hospital room, its only decorations consisting of flowers, cards and seashells carefully arranged on a table next to my mother’s bed.

  My mother was diagnosed with cancer about a year ago, a year full of months spent in various hospitals, radia­tion therapy, doses of chemotherapy and other methods to try to kill the cancer eating away at her life. But the tumors keep growing and spreading, and all the treatments have done is weaken her already frail body. The disease is now in its final course and, although nobody has told me, I know my mother won’t be coming home this time.

  I tried to change my thoughts, and they once again returned to my daydreams. Everything seemed so clear and so real, the sound of the waves, the taste of salt, the seagulls, and the . . . what was in my hand? I glanced down at my hands and realized I was holding my mother’s favorite shell. I placed it against my ear, and the sound of the ocean sent cherished memories crashing into my mind.

  Every year, my mother, my father and I would spend our summer vacations in a little cabin down by the ocean. As a little girl, I would explore this stretch of sand with my parents. Walking hand-in-hand, they would swing me high into the air as we ran to meet the incoming surf. And it was there, in those gentle waves, where my parents first taught me how to swim. I would wear my favorite navy blue-and-white striped swimsuit, and my father’s strong arms would support me, while my mother’s gentle hands would guide me through the water. After many mouthfuls of swallowed salty ocean water I could swim by myself, while my parents stood close by, proudly and anxiously watching over me. And it was in those grains of sand, not on a piece of paper that could be saved and displayed on a refrigerator, that I first painstakingly wrote my name.

  My family’s fondest memories weren’t captured on film and put in a photo album, but were captured in the sand, wind and water of the ocean. Last summer was the final time my family would ever go to the ocean all together. This summer was nearly over and had been filled with memories of various hospitals, failed treatments, false hopes, despair, sorrow and tears.

  I glanced over at my mother lying in her hospital bed, peacefully asleep after the doctor had given her some medicine for her pain. I wanted to cry out to God, “Why, why my mother? How can I live without her to help me through my life? Don’t take her away from my father and me!” My tears and sobs began to fade away, as the dripping of my mother’s IV hypnotized me into a restless sleep.

  • • • •

  “Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust,” droned the pastor, while my father and I spread my mother’s ashes over the ocean water. Some of them fell into the water and dissolved, while others were caught in the wind and carried away. This was my mother’s final wish—to be in the place she loved the most, where all her favorite memories live on.

  As the funeral concluded and people began to drift away saying words of comfort to my father and me, I stayed behind to say my final farewell to Mother. I carried her favorite shell that brought her so much comfort while she was in the hospital and unable to hear the sounds of the ocean. I put it to my ear and the sound of the ocean seemed almost muted. I looked into the shell and was surprised to find a piece of paper stuck inside of it. I pulled the paper out and read its words:

  To my daughter, I will always love you and be with you.

  A name in the sand will never last,

  The waves come rolling into shore high and fast.

  And wash the lines away,

  But not the memories we shared that day.

  Where we have trod this sandy shore,

  Our traces we left there will be no more.

  But, wherever we are,

  The memories will never be far.

  Although I may not be with you,

  Know that my love for you will always be true.

  Those memories will last forever,

  And in them we shall always be together.

  Hold them close to your heart,

  And know that from your side I will never part.

  As I crossed the beach, I stooped and wrote my mother’s name in the sand. I continued onward, turning only to cast one last lingering look behind, and the waves had already begun to wash my lines away.

  Elizabeth Stumbo

  Inner Sustenance

  All of the significant battles are waged within the self.

  Sheldon Kopp

  All I ever wanted was to be popular. Have the coolest friends. Be in a hot rock band and date the best-looking men—simple wishes for a young girl. Some of my dreams even came true. I started a rock band. And the cutest guy at Melbourne High School even asked me out.

  I answered yes of course, but within a week, he complained, “Your hips are too big. You need to lose weight to look thin like the other girls in your band.”

  Immediately, I tried several different diets to lose weight. For one, I ate grapefruit and vegetables only. That didn’t work; I felt faint and had to eat. The second week I tried skipping breakfast and dinner. When I did that, I became so hungry by the time dinner came, I splurged and eventually started gaining weight. Ten pounds I added in a month trying to please my boyfriend. Instead of praising my efforts, he cut me down even more. “You look like a whale,” he said, making me feel not as pretty as my other friends who wanted to date him. I felt self-conscious and didn’t want to lose him as a boyfriend, so I desperately searched for another way to lose the pounds that were keeping him at bay.

  I didn’t even think that he was the problem: just me, it was just me. Whatever I ate made me fatter. Whatever I wore, I looked hideous. I was now 110 pounds, a complete blimp!

  One evening after a date, I got so angry by his “whale” remarks that I ate an enormous piece of cake. The guilt made me want to try something I had seen other girls in my school doing at lunch break: throw up. I went to my bathroom and without even thinking of the consequences, stuck my finger down my throat and threw up in the toilet.

  All I ever wanted was to be as pretty as a model. I wanted my boyfriend to look at me the same way as he did those bikini-poster girls.

  It was so easy. That cake I just enjoyed didn’t cost me any unwanted calories.

  Once a day soon turned into three forced vomits. Becoming malnourished, I was constantly hungry, so I ate more, threw up more. It wasn’t until I strangely gained another fifteen pounds and tried to quit a month later that I realized I couldn’t stop. I fought to, for several weeks. As soon as I got up from the table, my stomach began convulsing. Now my own stomach somehow believed that’s what it was supposed to do. I had to run from the table. I was throwing up without even sticking my finger down my throat or even wanting to!

  I wasn’t in control anymore. I was caught in a whirlwind. I thought bulimia would help me lose pounds but after the months of doing it, not only hadn’t it controlled my weight, but the purging had opened up the pits of hell.

  I needed help. My boyfriend’s comments and my weight were the least of my problems now and I knew it. At age fifteen I ­didn’t know what to do. Desperate for a solution, I broke down into tears and confided in the only person I could trust: my mom. Unsure, of how she would react and wondering if she’d stop loving me if she knew, I mustered up the courage to write the truth on a note and leave it on her dresser:

  “Mom, I’m sick. I tried forcing myself to throw up to lose weight, now I am vomiting every day. I can’t stop. I’m afraid I’m going to die.”

  I locked myself in my room the entire night. My mother knocked on my door several times. I could hear her crying. The next morning she pounded harder and told me she had made a doctor’s appointment for me. “Get out here before we’re late!” she said.

  I opened the door. Instead of a hard a
nd loud scolding, I received a hug. Being in her understanding arms, I had the confidence to go to the doctor with her.

  The first meeting with the doctor, I’ll never forget. He told me that by using bulimia to lose weight I was actually retaining water, losing hair, ruining the enamel on my teeth and was now developing a very serious stomach condition called gastritis. He informed me I was malnourished and in danger of losing my life. He strongly recommended that I check myself into a hospital for treatment.

  Knowing that I would be apart from my friends and my mother, I didn’t want to agree. Going to the hospital seemed to be a way of walking away from everything I’ve ever known. I was terrified about leaving home. I’d never been away from my house, my school or my friends be­fore. I was wondering if anyone would even stay my friend or if they all would think I was a freak. I thought about telling the doctor I wouldn’t even consider it, but my conscience reminded me, If I don’t go I’ll be spending the rest of my days, however many more I have left, throwing my life away, literally down the toilet. I told the doctor I would go.

  The first day and night were the hardest. Nurses gave me a study schedule for both educational and counseling activities. I would attend six different classes each day: math, English, science, group counseling, PE and a personal session with my doctor. All the people were complete strangers. Most of the patients my age weren’t there for eating disorders but for severe mental illnesses or violent behaviors. In my first class, math, I sat down and said hello to the girl sitting next to me. She turned her head and ignored me. I shifted in my chair and waved to the girl on my left and asked what her problem was. She ­didn’t answer and mumbled something about needing medicine. I quickly learned that the other patients were hard to relate to or on heavy medication. They ­didn’t seem to have any desire to make friends. That night, I cried myself to sleep, feeling more alone than I ever had.