Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul on Tough Stuff (6 page)

After that night, over the next year and a half, I ran away twenty-three times. I managed to get caught every time, but within twenty-four hours I'd leave again. I was so hooked on drugs that I was afraid if I stayed at home, I wouldn't be able to get the drugs I wanted and needed so much.

I would stay at friends' houses until their parents figured out what was going on. Instead of returning home, I chose to live on the streets with friends or by myself. In colder weather, basements of apartment complexes became my source for shelter.

My mom didn't know why I was running away. I didn't communicate with her. She obviously knew something was wrong, but she just couldn't figure out what it was that was causing me to leave home. She tried putting me in treatment centers. Eventually, I ended up in one. During that first treatment center visit, I told her what was going on.

When I returned home from treatment I was off drugs, but after a few weeks I started using again. I continued this pattern for a while, having relapse after relapse. Finally, my mom quit her job to dedicate all of her time to helping me.

I went through three more short-term treatment programs, each one lasting only eleven to fourteen days. Each time, I was sincere about wanting to quit drugs, but I didn't know how. I felt like I didn't have enough time in those brief programs to learn how to live my life without drugs. By then, my self-esteem was so low that I was battling an eating disorder as well.

When I turned fourteen, I was receiving intensive counseling, and my mom decided I needed long-term treatment. In my state, at fourteen you're allowed to legally deny medical treatment. So when my mom wanted to put me into a six- to nine-month treatment program, I refused. I was at the lowest of lows in my life at that point. I had already overdosed on peyote and, not knowing how to turn my life around, I looked at suicide as my only way out. I just didn't see how another treatment center was going to help me.

My mom and I took our battle to court. She told the judge about my past, my drug use and that I was an addict. The next day he placed me in a treatment center. I haven't gotten high since that day, five and a half years ago.

The treatment center was like a big family. We would go to school for half the day and then receive intensive counseling. Prior to my admittance to the center, I had been using cocaine heavily, so I went through withdrawals.

The real turning point in my recovery happened when I met someone my own age who really wanted to quit. She kept telling me, “Help me, and I'll help you.” That moved me so much, and it still moves me when I think about it. Having a peer say, “Hey, you can do it,” made me want to do it this time.

I also met a woman in a Narcotics Anonymous meeting who had a major impact on me. She stood up and started talking about what was going on in her life. I remember watching her and thinking that she glowed. It's hard to describe, but for some reason she just glowed. Everything about her life was okay now, even the parts she was not happy with. I remember looking at her and thinking,
I just
want to be a little bit shiny. I don't need to glow, but just shine a
little.
That day I decided I was going to do everything in my power to live a healthy life.

Wanting something and following through with it were two completely different things for me then. After I finished treatment, we moved again. I was turning fifteen, and I knew that before long everyone at my school would find out about my past. I was going to be in the same position I was in when I was eleven, with no friends, only this time I couldn't use drugs to help me make them.

I was so determined to stay on track that I sought help from my guidance counselor right away. I told her that I didn't trust myself not to slip back into my old lifestyle. She surprised me by asking me to tell my story to fifth and sixth graders. I told her I had never spoken in front of people before, but she assured me that I would do just fine.

I was really scared about sharing my past with a bunch of strangers, so I asked my mom if she would join me. We sat down that evening and planned the presentation. We had our first heart-to-heart since I was ten years old.

We did two presentations at an elementary school, and it made the front page of all the local newspapers. Suddenly, schools were calling us. I was in awe. I couldn't believe people wanted me to come to their schools and talk, that they considered me to be somebody who could help other kids.

I realized that doing these presentations helped boost my self-esteem and confirmed for me that I never wanted to do drugs again. It hit me that I might be helping to save someone's life or preventing another kid from getting involved with drugs.

My mom and I still speak at schools and treatment centers together. Kids call me at home sometimes after our talks. Some thank me. Some share their own stories. Some even tell me that I shine—and that is the best part of all.

Jenny Hungerford
As told to Susan K. Perry

That Warm Night

I was invited to a party,
a few roads across town.
I thought I'd meet my friends there,
but they were not around.

So I hopped into my beat-up car,
ready for adventure.
My mom came racing to my door,
I was ready for my lecture.

Instead she told me softly,
to be careful that warm night.
I promised her that I'd drive safe,
that everything would be all right.

I arrived at the location,
and accepted a small drink.
I didn't really want it,
but I didn't stop to think.

Soon I was gulping cocktails,
feeling lighter with each sip.
And I felt so free, invincible,
as I swallowed the last drip.

The room was spinning freely,
as I danced across the floor.
And I wondered why I hadn't ever
drank this much before.

Then, despite my happiness and fun,
my head began to ache.
I found my car keys in my purse,
'cause my brain was going to break.

I stumbled across the gardens,
unlocked my beat-up car.
Started up the engine,
headed across town once more.

But something tragic happened,
I didn't see the light.
I didn't see the people, either,
crossing that warm night.

As I slid across the pavement,
I knew my time had come.
My head just kept on spinning,
all this for just some fun.

The next moments were quite hazy,
as I lay mangled in the car.
Pain shooting through my body,
never thought it'd go this far.

Heard sirens in the background,
rushing to my aid.
But as I closed my tired eyes,
I knew it was too late.

As I saw the world below me,
my heart just filled with dread.
I saw the people that I hit,
and knew that they were dead.

I cried so hard on that warm night,
as I floated through the sky.
Knowing that it was my fault,
and I never said good-bye.

Now I'm floating up to heaven,
where I really don't belong.
Brought so much pain to others,
did something really wrong.

I killed six happy people,
four kids, a man and wife.
And I'm lying in a coffin,
because I lost my precious life.

I see my mother's upset face,
her eyes so filled with tears.
“This wasn't supposed to happen,
this is exactly what I feared.”

I was just a normal teen,
who had too much to drink.
I had a boyfriend, did well in school,
but that night I didn't think.

So the next time you're invited
to a party with your friends,
Please remember this could be
the night when it could end.

I learned all this the hard way,
and made a terrible mistake.
So please don't do what I did,
and drink as much as you can take.

I had so much before me,
a great future straight ahead.
I wanted to be an actress,
but I can't because I'm dead.

It happened all so quickly,
didn't even get to fight.
Didn't know how fast my life could end,
I'll always remember that warm night.

Sarah Woo

What She Doesn't Know

My friend has a problem, and sometimes I feel like I'm the only one who notices her when she's lost and she's tormented and she's alone in the world. And when she's high, she comes to me and she tells me what she's done, whether it's speed or cocaine or something bigger and faster, something harder and louder, something else that takes the person I laugh with and depend on away.

She is ripping herself away from her truth, and the only way I can reach her is to let her know that I care about her. All I can do is listen to her babble when she's high, and weep when she's coming down, because I can't fix her. All I can be is a friend to her until she realizes she has a problem, until she stops running from her daytime self to the lure of things that make her worries rest. I can't make her stop. So it's been hard, to have her pass out and the line go dead. To have her come to my house running on speed not to be with me, but so that she doesn't get caught.

It is my right to help her. And to point out to her how strong she is, how real and breathing and clear she is to me, and to everyone. She is calling for help but doesn't know it yet. She is yelling and swallowing her tears, because somewhere she knows that she can't keep packing herself away. Some time this anger or fury or sadness will find her, and she needs to stand in its torrential downpour and get filled by it, because somewhere inside her she is empty. I can't be her mother, and I can't be with her all the time, telling her what she can put in her body and what she can't. So she has gotten lost somewhere in the deep end, and I can't pull her out, but I can show her how she can do it herself.

I am watching her, and I am hugging her and trying to remind her of the countless reasons why I am so much better from knowing her. I can listen to her when she needs me, and when she doesn't. I can let her know that, no matter what she does, she is my friend, and nothing will change that. I can take a step back and see what's taking parts of her away. I can encourage her to answer honestly when I ask how she is. I can remind her about moderation. I can point out the people who love her. I can show her how much she needs to stop for herself. I can be a positive influence on her. I can listen to her when her voice hints of this thing that she is missing and can't find. She needs to see for herself that her daytime self is alive and beating and multicolored. I can help her remember what her life was like before the dealers and the midnight fixes. I can help her stand tall and strong, on feet and legs and ankles she trusts. I can help her see that life is not about three-hour solutions that make her wake up feeling dead. I can be someone safe to her. I can care about her so much that I point her to the exit and hold her hand as she gets there.

My friend has a problem, and I am helping her. I am listening, and I am talking, and I am working with her, and I am learning how to be the best to her. I have unshakable confidence in her, and I know that she can stand where she is and she can stop. I can be the person she turns to, because she can't see right now that she can turn to herself. She can't see it yet, but soon.

Kate Reder

[EDITORS' NOTE:
If you have a friend who has a drug or drinking
problem (or any problem that is causing himself or herself
harm), it is absolutely necessary to speak with an adult about getting
professional help for your friend. We have listed some hotline
numbers and Web sites below that you can call, but it is important
to speak to an adult you trust as soon as possible.
]

Al-Anon/Alateen: 800-344-2666
For friends and family of people with drinking problems.

Center for Substance Abuse Treatment: 800-662-HELP

Alcoholics Anonymous:
www.alcoholics-anonymous.org

Narcotics Anonymous:
www.na.org

The Man My Father Was

My parents divorced when I was seven years old. This came as no surprise to everyone around them. My father had been an alcoholic for many years, and it was only a matter of time before it took its toll on their marriage. After the divorce, my mom remarried and my dad moved to a town about thirty minutes away. By the time I was twelve, I felt stable and even happy. I liked having two families.

It was around this time that my dad was fired from his job of nearly ten years. We all knew that it was because of the drinking. We also knew that it would be hard for a nearly fifty-year-old man to find a new job. For a year and a half he remained unemployed, and his situation seemed more and more desperate. He continued to be a big part of my life, though. No longer stuck at work, he attended all of my basketball games and kept our relationship as strong as it ever was.

Finally, he got a job—in the next state. In a few months, my father was settled in his new home and job, while I was left to try and adjust to life without him. He managed to turn his financial situation around, but I was worried about him. He didn't make any new friends and, when he wasn't with me, he was in his apartment alone. He seemed lonely.

When it was my dad's weekend to pick me up, he would drive three hours to get me and we would stay in a hotel. I loved those weekends together, but as time went on my dad seemed to cancel his time with me more and more frequently. He always seemed to get a “stomach flu,” and when we did spend the weekend together, he was often in the bathroom vomiting. We all noticed how emaciated he had become; his legs were even thinner than mine. But although he was physically deteriorating, my dad was determined to maintain his relationship with his family. He called his daughter every day.