Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul on Tough Stuff (5 page)

When Christy was finally released from jail and then rehab, Matt's family decided to move. They moved south, away from Christy's reputation and the backstreets where Matt had conquered curbsides and half-pipes in the small town by the sea. Christy was clean and never again did Matt wake up to his sister's arrests, or a cold sweat after the nightmares that plagued him while she was away. She had been clean for six months, and then two years, and then four. Matt went to high school and Christy moved back up north to go to school.

“Were you afraid?” I asked.

“Nope. She was going back to school. I was glad. She was going to pursue her art. She was so talented, you know,” Matt whispered.

I knew. I had seen her artwork. It hung in Matt's room, in his kitchen and bathroom. She had even painted straight on the walls. Matt let her paint all over them.

Matt and I dated during my senior year. He was my first serious relationship. Christy came down to visit Matt and the family pretty often, and whenever she came down, Matt would rush to be with her. She was the woman in his life, more than I ever was. Christy and Matt were best friends. They were like nothing I had ever seen. Matt would light up when Christy entered a room. He was so proud of her. She was his angel, his big sister, and everything she said was amusing, brilliant or just cool.

I got the call a few months ago. Even though Matt and I had broken up over a year before, we were still close friends. The call wasn't from him, though. It was from another friend.

“Becca, look . . . I thought I should tell you. Christy died. She overdosed. Heroin. I'm sorry.”

The air went numb, and the murmur of the TV in the other room muted. I dropped the phone and stared at the wall for what seemed like hours.

“But she was clean. Ten years now! She was clean . . .” I mumbled softly, my voice tainting the wind that blew on that rainy afternoon. I called Matt. He was with his family up north, where it happened.

Matt told me, “She wasn't supposed to die. She was going to be married in a couple of months. They had the date and everything. We found this picture of her. She was wearing wings. You should see it; she looks like an angel.”

He wasn't crying. I searched the blues of his eyes for a tear, but he was hypnotized. The shock. The impossibility of his earth angel lost somewhere in the universe. It was too much.

“The last time I saw her, she was so happy. I had my guitar and I was playing for her, and she was laughing. She was so beautiful and so happy. She was going to be a makeup artist. She would have been the best.” Matt was smiling, and I took his hand.

She didn't have to die. She was clean for ten years, and then one day she started up again. Her body couldn't take it. She passed out, and they couldn't revive her. They couldn't make her come back.

Matt spoke during the funeral. His words were soft and eloquent, and he looked out at Christy's friends and family and told them how much he loved her, how much he will always love her. He showed his tattoo, the one that he and his sister got together. Some laughed. Some cried.

The picture that Matt had mentioned to me was perched behind the podium, between lilies and roses. Matt was right. She did look like an angel—red lips and blue eyes, wearing white and angel wings.

That night, after the funeral, Matt and I went down to the cove where he and Christy used to laugh. “How could she do this? Why? Why did she have to do this?” he asked.

He cried. I cried, too.

I talked to Matt the other day. I asked him how he was doing.

“I'm okay,” he said. “Most of the time. Sometimes I can't sleep. I'm waiting for Christy to come home or for her to call. Sometimes I have these nightmares. I play the guitar a lot, even more than I used to. I have to practice. I'm in a band now, and we play gigs and stuff. The last song of the set is always the best. That's the song I practice over and over again until it's perfect. It has to be just perfect because I play it for Christy. The last song is always for Christy.”

Rebecca Woolf

The Final Act

Screeching tires, shattering glass,
Twisting metal, fiberglass.
The scene is set, it all goes black,
The curtain raised, the final act.
Sirens raging in the night,
Sounds of horror, gasps of fright.
Intense pain, the smell of blood,
Tearing eyes begin to flood.

They pull out bodies one by one.
What's going on? We were only having fun!
My friend is missing. What did I do?
Her belongings everywhere,
In the road there lies her shoe.

A man is leaning over me and looks into my eyes,
“What were you thinking, son?
Did you really think that you could drive?”
He pulls up the sheet, still looking at me,
“If you'd only called your mom or dad, you'd still be
   alive.”

I start to scream, I start to yell
But no one can hear me, no one can tell.
They put me in an ambulance, they take me away.
The doctor at the hospital exclaims, “DOA!”

My father's in shock, my mother in tears,
She collapses in grief, overcome by the fear.
They take me to this house and place me in this box.
I keep asking what is happening,
But I can't make it stop.

Everyone is crying, my family is so sad.
I wish someone would answer me,
I'm starting to get mad.
My mother leans over and kisses me good-bye,
My father pulls her away, while she is screaming, “WHY?”

They lower my body into a dirt grave,
It feels so cold, I yell to be saved.
Then I see an angel, I begin to cry.
Can you tell me what is happening?
And she tells me that I died.

I can't be dead, I'm still so young!
I want to do so many things
Like sing and dance and run.
What about college or graduation day?
What about a wedding? Please—I want to stay.

The angel looks upon me, and with a saddened voice,
“It didn't have to end like this, you knew you had a choice.
I'm sorry, it's too late now, time I can't turn back.
Your life is finished—that, my son, is fact.”

Why did this happen? I didn't want to die!
The angel embraces me and with her words she sighs,
“Son, this is the consequence you paid to drink and drive.
I wish you made a better choice, if you did you'd be alive.
It doesn't matter if you beg me, or plead on bended knee,
There is nothing I can do, you have to come with me.”

Looking at my family, I say my last good-bye.
“I'm sorry I disappointed you, Dad.
Mommy, please don't cry.
I didn't mean to hurt you, or cause you any pain.
I'm sorry all you're left with is a grave that bears my name.
I'm sorry all your dreams for me have all been ripped away,
The plans for my future now buried in a grave.

“It was a stupid thing to do,
I wish I could take it back.
But the curtain is being lowered now.
So ends my final act.”

Lisa Teller

A Sobering Experience

When most of my classmates were starting their sophomore year of high school in 1998, I was just coming out of a coma. I'd missed the entire summer, and when I woke up, I was a fifteen-year-old with the mind of an eight-year-old.

A few months earlier, on June 12, we had just finished our last day of classes before exam week. To celebrate, I made plans to go to a party with my friend Dean. I knew my dad wouldn't approve of me partying with Dean since he was a junior and I was a freshman, so I said we were going to a hamburger place in town. My dad agreed to let me go, but said I had to be home by 11:00 P.M.

I don't remember most of what happened that night— a lot of what I know is pieced together from things I've been told. I do know that after Dean picked me up, we met up with some guys at a lake near my house. A few of them, including Dean, were smoking pot. I knew I shouldn't drive with someone who had been doing drugs, but when it came time to get in the car with Dean, I guess I figured that if he thought he was okay to drive, he probably was. So we went to the party. My brother was there and has since told me that I spent most of the night sitting in a chair in the garage, watching what was going on. I was only fifteen, and I was surrounded by all these eighteen-, nineteen- and twenty-year-olds. I don't remember having anything to drink, but I do remember seeing Dean drinking beer.

When it was almost 11:00, I told Dean I had to get home, and he said he'd take me. He invited a couple of friends to come with us, and we headed for the car. Again, I didn't really think about not driving with this guy, even though he'd been drinking and getting high. You learn about all this stuff in school, but when you're caught up in the moment, for some reason it doesn't really click. I guess I never thought anything bad could happen to me. But on the ride home, Dean was driving really fast—maybe close to 100 mph. We were on dirt roads and he was making the car fishtail, playing it all cool like it was so fun. That's when I realized I'd made a horrible mistake. I screamed at Dean from the passenger seat to slow down, but he didn't. We got to the top of a steep hill, and Dean was going so fast that the car flew into the air. We landed in the wrong lane and, as Dean swerved to try to get back on the right side, he overcorrected and my side of the car crashed into four trees. My head smacked into those trees one after the other.

The guy sitting behind me in the car broke his leg, but Dean and the guy behind him were fine. For a month after the accident, it was uncertain if I would live. I was in a coma until September, and I don't remember much until October. I had no broken bones, scratches or cuts, just one giant bruise down my chest from the seat belt. I would have gone through the windshield and died without that seat belt.

My parents lived the worst nightmare, constantly by my side, fearing I would die at any moment. When I came out of the coma, I recognized my family, but I was not the same person who got into Dean's car before the accident. My brain had bounced around against my skull, and I suffered a traumatic brain injury. Basically, the side of my brain that sends messages to my body to tell it how to move was severely damaged. I don't know how long it will take me to regain my motor skills entirely, or if I ever will.

Even after going through a lengthy rehabilitation in the hospital, I still walked so badly that people on the street stared and wondered what was wrong with me. It's a miracle that I can walk at all, let alone play sports. When I was a freshman, I dreamed of playing basketball for the WNBA, but that dream died the night of the accident. Now, I'm so glad because I am playing again, and I've worked on getting my stride back. But I'll never get back to the level where I used to be. My knee jerks back awkwardly when I run, and my coordination will never be the same.

The effects of the brain injury have not been just physical. When I first got back to school, I was put into a special resource room to do communication, speech, occupational and physical therapy. Eventually, I started taking regular classes again—and I will graduate on time—but the accident has messed up my memory and my ability to concentrate, and studying is really hard. I have to write myself notes to remember things, and even after a couple of years of handwriting therapy, my writing is still not very fast or clear. My speech has improved, but it's not great. Most people don't realize it, but all of these little things pretty much make up who you are, and when they're gone, a piece of you is changed forever.

Then again, in some ways I've changed for the better since the accident. I used to think that life was all a big joke. Now I know it's much more precious, and I think Dean knows that, too. He and I weren't allowed to see each other when I returned to school. He never went to jail, but he had to pay a fine. My parents will always be angry with Dean, and I get angry sometimes, too. But I don't necessarily blame him. He once said to me, “I wish I had died in that accident; I wish I hadn't hurt you. But I did and I'm sorry.” I know I can't change what happened, but neither can he, so we just have to let go of the things that make us sad or angry and live each day in gratitude.

Sarah Jackson
As told to Jennifer Braunschweiger

Hitting Bottom

“
P
eople don't change that much. . . .”
  
“Yes, they do. They grow up and they accept
responsibilities, and they realize that ‘die
young, stay pretty' isn't exactly all it's cracked
up to be.”

Drue and Jen,
Dawson's Creek

It began when I was eleven. My family and I had just moved to a new town. Making new friends was never difficult for me before, but I was going through an awkward stage, and I was feeling self-conscious about my appearance. I was having a hard time reaching out to meet new people. So when I saw some kids smoking, I figured if I could join them for a cigarette I could meet some potential “friends.” We hung out and smoked and continued this ritual pretty much every day. Before long I was introduced to other kids, and eventually I started drinking and getting high right along with them—it seemed the natural, easy thing to do. Soon, drugs and alcohol became my friends, too. A few years later, I was using cocaine and running away from home.

The first time I ran away I was thirteen. I had come home late one evening, and my mom was still up. She saw me sitting in a friend's car in front of our house. She was pretty strict about me being in my friends' cars. I was so stoned I knew at that point I couldn't go into my house, so I left with my friend.