Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul on Tough Stuff (25 page)

I feel alone in depression, as it separates me from everyone around me. I feel freakishly different, in my own world. And when I step outside my world it always ends in pain. A simple two-minute conversation with a peer gets twisted through my mind endlessly throughout the day . . . throughout the weeks. Why didn't I say this or that? Why did I say this or that? What did they mean when they said this or that? If only I could have done it or said it differently. Regret, frustration, depression, this is my routine. It's not friends I see walking towards me as I enter my school's cafeteria; rather, I see an endless series of confrontations with the enemy. They do not understand me. I do not understand me.

All this led to my visit with Dr. Katz. And now I am standing at my mom's side as she is having my prescription filled. She taps her fingers nervously on the counter as we wait, and I again feel guilt for the pain I've caused her.

Dr. Katz and I talked for precisely fifty minutes earlier today in his dreary little office. He sat across the room from me, while my mom waited uneasily out in the hallway. I tried to form a feeble smile as the door closed between us so that she wouldn't worry about me. I guess it's too late for that.

Dr. Katz listened to me speak, while closing his eyes and nodding his head slowly in a rhythmic fashion. I wondered if he really heard my words, or if he was just taking a quick nap at 120 bucks a pop. When he'd heard enough from me, or it was nearly the end of our allotted fifty minutes, he opened his eyes and began to speak.

He told me that he believes I am suffering from depression, and I rolled my eyes at his brilliant deduction. He then went on to explain that it is not my fault, and in my head I wondered how he knew that I believe that it is all my fault.

He asked me if I have ever heard of something called a “chemical brain imbalance.” I shook my head. He explained to me that this is what causes my depression and that there are medications that can correct it. He asked me if I have ever heard of Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder or OCD and I again answer no. He told me that this disorder sometimes accompanies depression, manifesting itself as different obsessive compulsions. In my case, he said, it causes me to replay social situations over and over again like a broken record. I was struck by the fact that I've never even listened to a record, only CDs, but I got the point.

And so that's why I am standing here with my mom, waiting for the pharmacist to fill my prescription. For the first time I feel sort of hopeful that something can lead me back to life. The pharmacist casually looks my way as he counts out the tiny yellow pills, and I wonder if he feels sorry for me. I wonder if he thinks I'm crazy.

Then the gray-haired old lady who works the register rings up my sale, and I stare at the tiny bottle that might hold hope for me. I look forward to my next visit with Dr. Katz, hoping that maybe our sessions together will quiet something that is currently screaming inside of me. And I wonder how many other kids are out there who are suffering in silence just like me.

Ruth Greenspan
As told to C. S. Dweck

[EDITORS' NOTE:
Clinical depression is a serious illness that
can affect your grades, your relationships with friends and family
members, and your behavior in all areas of your life. Some of the
signs of depression include:

• A change in appetite and sleep patterns

• Loss of interest or enjoyment in usual activities

• Prolonged sadness

• Withdrawal from friends

• Feelings of worthlessness

• Lack of energy

• Poor school performance

As many as 15 to 20 percent of teens have experienced serious
depression. If you are concerned that you or someone you know
may be suffering from depression, we encourage you to talk to your
school counselor or an adult you trust. Treatment for depression
can include therapy and/or medication. The following are some
helpful resources.
]

Youth Crisis Line: 800-843-5200,
twenty-four hours

Info Line: 800-339-6993
General information and referrals.

Teen Line: 800-TLC-TEEN

Cookie-Cutter Hands

It started a few years ago—the cutting. My boyfriend had just broken up with me, and my mother disappeared. She left a note—that was it—and then was gone.

On the outside I was your typical high-school freshman. I was in the popular group. Older boys liked me, and I earned straight A's. I was told to be grateful, to rejoice that I didn't have to keep a job after school and that I could attend a private college back east after graduation. I was told that everything was going to be okay. I was told to smile, and not to think about Mom or stress out over school. I was told not to care. Except, the problem was that I
did
care. I cared about Mom leaving and my boyfriend dumping me, and not being able to talk to anyone. I cared that my dad was always working and that I was always alone. I cared about everything—and I felt so alone.

On the inside I was tormented by feelings of angst, loneliness and self-loathing. My mother's leaving confused me. I was ashamed and humiliated over my breakup with my boyfriend. In a sense, I felt dead. It was as if I went to school mummified. No one knew that my insides were rotting away, slowly.

I never talked about these feelings with my friends. Why would I? What would they say? How would they react? I was happy and fun to hang out with at school, and nothing was ever wrong. I grew up in a neighborhood where the grass was always cut and sixteen candles on the cake justified a shiny new car.

Somehow, even though I was suffering, I couldn't feel it. I wanted to feel the pain that I could not understand. I wanted to reshape the crooked emotions into a neat little line that stretched across my right arm, a line that curved around my ankle, a line that liberated the caged ghosts screaming inside me. The razor was like a tool, a wrench used to tighten the screws on my innards and keep them in place so that I didn't have to cry in public or talk about my pain or feel alone.

With every red beaded line, I would sigh in calm relief. I didn't cry when I was hurt or upset. Instead, I cut. The complex emotions leaked from my flesh in the form of blood, rather than from my eyes in the form of tears. Anytime I felt empty or stressed or confused, anytime I looked in the mirror—hating myself and my cursed reflection—I would cut. I would cut just to bleed, to know that I was still breathing, to feel my heart race and my nerves stir.

My secret kept me safe. I became addicted to a pain that didn't hurt, but instead felt nice. I sought refuge in the shower with my cookie-cutter-like razor, making imprints on my soft flesh: circles and lines, hearts and stars. I was steady with my razor. The whole world seemed to blur and slow down, and the cuts left me calm as I watched the crimson tears drip onto the white shower tiles.

I hid my scars under designer blouses with long sleeves. Sometimes I let them show.

“Darn cat,” I would say if anyone asked. “Darn friggin' cat.”

My addiction to self-mutilation lasted all through high school. No one knew that there was a war going on inside of me. I was really good at hiding it. Sometimes I flirted with the idea of pressing the razor harder into my wrist to make the whole world stop. I never did, though, thank God. Instead I got caught.

After four years of hiding my cookie-cutter hands and neatly sliced arms, my father finally noticed my self-inflicted wounds. I couldn't use the same excuse with him. He knew we didn't have a cat.

I felt naked showing my father my scars. I didn't want to share them with him. I was angry with him for being so unaware, for letting my mother leave and for abandoning me with my pain. He scrutinized the red marks under my sleeves and the scabbed lines beneath my socks. And then he cried. My father had never cried before. I cried, too, and at that moment, I snapped. I suddenly realized how unhappy I was. I wasn't happy at school, and I wasn't happy after cutting myself. Cutting had been a release, an ephemeral exhale, a brief hope that I could make it hurt enough to release the pain, so that I could smile again, and that my smile would be for real. I wanted to make myself bleed and then watch myself heal. I wanted to be in control of the wounds inflicted in order to see the pain I felt inside, and, yet, I realized at that moment that I wasn't in control of anything.

I started seeing a doctor and learning how to express my emotions and make my pain tangible. I wrote in my diary and played the guitar. I talked to my father and my friends at school. I talked to my new boyfriend. I tried to get out of the house as much as possible, exploring nature and the other side of the window. I took in the air and relaxed. Slowly, it became easier. Slowly, my addiction lessened, and I was okay. It was hard, but I grew stronger each time I faced my pain. I realized that for the past four years, I had been walking through shadows without taking the time to look up at the purple jacaranda trees that cast them.

Kelly Peters
As told to Rebecca Woolf

[EDITORS' NOTE:
I know how scared you are and I know you
think it's different for you, but I promise if you reach out and ask
for help, it will come. Here are some resources for you, so that you
don't have to face what you are going through alone.
]

National Mental Health Association Help Line: 800-969-6642

United Way Crisis Help Line: 800-233-4357

Numb

The sharp edge of the razor cuts my skin easily.
I'm numb to the pain,
Numb to the blood,
Too numb to realize what's happening,
To realize what I'm doing.
One cut follows another,
And another,
Till I can't stop.
The razor falls from my hand,
Blood drips down my arm,
Tears roll down my cheeks.
What have I done?

Jessica Dubose

10
DEATH
& DYING

I
t is only when we truly know and understand
that we have a limited time on Earth
and that we have no way of knowing when
our time is up that we will begin to live each
day to the fullest, as if it were the only one
we had.

Elisabeth Kübler-Ross

This Too Shall Pass

While compiling this book we were touched with sadness by the passing of two teenage girls who were readers of our
Chicken Soup
books. We, too, learned the hard way that suffering and death touch each and every one of us. None of us are able to go through life without suffering from life's hard lessons, including the hardest lesson of all—the death of someone we love and care about.

While working on
Teen Love: A Journal on Friendship,
we sent a permission agreement to a girl who had sent us many wonderful poems. A week or two later we received a letter from her mother. She explained to us that her daughter, Teal Henderson, had passed away on May 11, 2000. She went on to say that both Teal and she loved the
Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul
books and that her daughter would have been so thrilled to know that we were considering her poetry for publication. Because Teal loved to write, her mother felt blessed that she was left with even more memories of her through the many stories and poems her daughter had written.

Her mother shared these special words about her daughter saying, “She embraced life fully, almost fearlessly, as if she knew her time here would be short. She was our sunshine and though we no longer bask in her light, we'll always feel the warmth of her love.”

We did include some of Teal's poetry in
Teen Love: A
Journal on Friendship,
and are including more of it in this book. As you will see, Teal was an amazing writer and she seemed to somehow sense the preciousness of each moment she was alive. We remain deeply touched by Teal's poetry and by her mother's incredible courage and generosity. We thank her for sharing with us her daughter's beautiful poetry and a mother's unending and unconditional love.

Shortly thereafter we received another sad letter about one of our readers, Ailie:

  
My daughter, Ailie, was killed in an automobile accident on
March 3rd. I bought her
Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul
about three weeks before she died. SHE LLLLLLLOVED
YOUR BOOKS!! She was so thrilled when I handed it to her
that she hugged me harrrrd!! (“I love you, Mama!” I can hear
her voice. . . .)

  
I find her everywhere on our computer. She loved your
Web site and writing. She sent you poems, she gave advice to
others on your Web site and asked for advice as well. She
truly loved all that you stand for. She was becoming a strong,
proud woman, and you can take responsibility for a lot of
that!

  
I wanted to share this with you so you know how special
you were to her, as she was the heartbeat in my chest.

  
Every morning she would come in my room and ask if I
wanted to read her new poem. I loved them all.

Bonnie was kind enough to share with us a poem she had written to her daughter before she died.