As the weeks went by, it became easier and easier. Pretty soon I could twirl my combination without even looking at it. I hung posters in my locker, and finally felt like I was at home. I learned all of my teachers’ names and decided who I liked the best. Friendships from elementary school were renewed and made stronger, and new friends were made. I learned how to change into a gym suit in front of other girls. It never felt comfortable, but I did it— just like everyone else did. I don’t think any of us felt very comfortable.
I still didn’t like the bus; it did make me carsick. I even threw up on the bus once. (At least it was on the way home, not on the way to school.) I went to dances and parties, and I started to wonder what it would feel like to be kissed by a boy. The school had track tryouts, and I made the team and learned how to jump the low hurdles. I got pretty good at it, too.
First semester turned into second, and then third. Before I knew it, eighth grade was just around the corner. I had made it through.
Next year, on the first day of school, I would be watching the new seventh graders sweating it out just like I did—just like everyone does. I decided that I would feel sorry for them . . . but only for the FIRST day of seventh grade. After that, it’s a breeze.
Patty Hansen
Perfect, I’m Not
“Owwww!” Robert yelled, backing away from me. “That hurt!”
“What do you mean? I just hit you with my jacket!” I said, laughing. Robert was the cutest boy in class, and I had a major crush on him. I hadn’t meant to hurt him; I wanted him to like me. Besides, it was just a lightweight jacket.
But Robert didn’t act like someone who had been hit with a lightweight jacket. He was crying and holding his left shoulder.
“What’s going on?” our sixth-grade teacher, Mr. Mobley, asked.
“My shoulder . . . it hurts!” Robert groaned.
The next thing I knew, Robert was heading to the nurse’s office. And I, bewildered, was marching back from recess and into our classroom with the other kids.
We started our spelling lesson, and I tried to pay attention as Mr. Mobley read the words for our weekly practice test.
Then someone knocked on our classroom door. When Mr. Mobley opened the door, a student volunteer from the office handed him a note. Every pair of eyes was riveted on Mr. Mobley. A note from the office usually signaled big trouble for somebody. This time, the somebody was me. Mr. Mobley looked up from the note and said, “Julie, Mr. Sinclair wants to see you in his office right away. He says you should take your belongings with you.”
Oh, no! I was being sent to the principal’s office. What would my parents say? With all eyes now turned in my direction, I dragged myself over to the coat hooks and grabbed the offending jacket. Embarrassment floated around me like a dirty cloud of dust.
How could a stupid jacket hurt anybody? I wondered as the door clicked shut behind me. I slid my arms through the jacket sleeves and slipped my hands into its pockets. Huh? My right hand closed over a hard, round object. I pulled it out. I had forgotten that my brand-new Duncan Imperial yo-yo was in my pocket. I felt my legs weaken. So I had hurt Robert not with my jacket, but with my yo-yo. As I crossed the courtyard to the principal’s office, I prayed, Please don’t let Robert be hurt too badly. And please don’t let Mr. Sinclair call my mom.
When I reached the office, the school secretary ushered me in to see the principal without making me wait—not exactly a good sign.
“What happened, Julie?” Mr. Sinclair asked. He came out from behind his big wooden desk and sat on a chair next to me.
“We were goofing around . . . and . . . I hit Robert on his shoulder with my jacket. I . . . um . . . I guess I had this in my pocket.” I opened my palm to show him the shiny red yo-yo I’d bought with my allowance. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I was only teasing. I didn’t mean to hurt him.” Little snorting sounds were coming out of my nose now, and my shoulders were heaving with barely suppressed sobs.
“I know you well enough to believe you. But Robert has a knot on his shoulder that’s about the size of your yo-yo. His mother is very upset. She’s taken him to the doctor.”
My head hung so low, it nearly touched my knees. More than anything, I wanted to melt into a puddle and trickle away under the door.
“I’m sure you didn’t mean to hurt anyone,” Mr. Sinclair went on. “But because Robert was injured, I have to send you home for the rest of the day. Please wait in the outer office until your mother comes to pick you up.”
My eyes widened. Now I’m going to get it! I thought.
I had plenty of time to think while I waited for my mother. I was always trying to be the “perfect student.” Straight A’s and praise from my teachers were rewarded with more praise and affection at home from my parents. What will happen now? I wondered. I had never been in trouble at school before.
Ten hopelessly long minutes later, my mother opened the door to the office. Her face looked serious. “Come on,” she said. “You can tell me about it in the car.”
During our short ride home, I told her the whole story. I’d been teasing Robert because I had a crush on him. I hadn’t meant to hurt him. We pulled into our driveway. “I’m s-s-sorry, Mom,” I said. My body tensed, ready for the punishment I knew I deserved.
Mom leaned toward me, and I sucked in my breath, waiting to see what would happen. Would she yell? Would she slap me? I really didn’t know what to expect.
My mother put one arm behind me and reached across in front of me with the other. Then she wrapped me tightly in a hug.
“I never told any of you kids this,” she said, “but I did something even worse when I was in elementary school. I bit a boy on the arm—on purpose. I got called to the principal’s office, too.” What? My mother, who never did anything wrong, had bitten a boy at school? The thought was too funny. I caught her eye. “I guess we’re just a couple of troublemakers, aren’t we, Honey?” Mom said with a smile.
“I guess so,” I said. In spite of the tears streaming down my face, I started to laugh. Pretty soon, Mom was laughing, too.
The next day, Robert was back at school, recovered except for a little tenderness. As soon as I saw him, I apologized, and our lives went back to normal.
But something important had changed. I had learned that life goes on, even when you make a mistake, and that a child can grow up to become a wise adult even after doing something foolish or hurtful. And to my great surprise and relief, I learned that I didn’t have to be perfect to be loved.
Julia Wasson Render
Rediscovery
Believing in our hearts that who we are is enough is the key to a more satisfying and balanced life.
Ellen Sue Stern
Seven. The age of ballet lessons and Barbie dolls, of learning to add and subtract simple numbers; the time when the family dog is your closest companion. Seven. The age of innocence.
I was a typical-looking child. I had long, straight brown hair that fell past my shoulders. My almond-shaped hazel eyes were always full of adventure and curiosity. And I had a smile that could brighten a bleak winter day.
I was a happy child with a loving family, and many friends, who loved to perform skits on home videos. I was a leader in school, not a follower. My best trait was my personality. I had imagination. But what made me special was not seen from the outside: I had a special love for life.
At age twelve, my life had a huge breakdown. It was then that I developed obsessive compulsive disorder (OCD). OCD is a disorder that is the result of a chemical imbalance in the brain. People with OCD don’t think the same way as people with chemically balanced brains. People with OCD do rituals. I started to wash my hands ten times an hour to avoid germs, and I constantly checked my kitchen oven to make sure that it was off. This way of life for me continued for four agonizing years, and by then, my OCD had led to depression. I was no longer the happy little girl I had been.
In the tenth grade I finally confessed to my mother that I was suffering fr
om depression along with my OCD. I couldn’t take the emotional pain anymore. I needed help if I wanted to continue living.
My mom took me to a doctor the same week. I started taking medicine that would hopefully cure my OCD and depression. Over the course of a few months, the medicine did help the OCD. I stopped doing rituals. I no longer took four showers a day to avoid germs. But one thing didn’t change; I still was overwhelmed with depression. I still was constantly sad and I started to believe that my life no longer mattered.
One autumn evening two years ago, I hit rock bottom. I thought that my life no longer had meaning, because I no longer brought joy to other people like I did when I was little. I decided suicide was the only solution to my depression problem, so I wrote a suicide note to all my friends and family. In the note I expressed that I was sorry for deciding to leave them, but that I thought it was for the best. As I was folding the note, my eyes fell on a photograph. It was a picture of an adorable little girl with natural blond highlights in her brown hair from spending so much time in the sun. She was wearing her red soccer uniform and held a biking helmet in her small hands. She had a carefree smile on her face that showed she was full of life.
It took me a few minutes to realize who the girl in the photo was. The photo had been taken one weekend at my uncle’s house when I was seven years old. I almost couldn’t believe that smiling child was me! I felt a chill go down my spine. It was like my younger self had sent me a message. Right then and there I knew I couldn’t kill myself. Once I had been a strong little girl, and I had to become strong like that again.
I tore up my suicide note and vowed that I would not rely only on my medicine to help my depression. I would have to fight the depression with my mind, too. I could make myself happy again.
It has been two years since I “rediscovered” myself. I am OCD- and depression-free. I still take medicine to keep my disorder at bay, but the real reason I am healed is because I took action and refused to let depression ruin my life. I learned a lifelong lesson: Never give up. Life is good. Everyone has challenges in life, but everyone can survive. I am living proof of that. Also, it is important to keep smiling, because in the end, everything will work out.
Of course my life can still be a struggle, but I pull through with a smile on my face. I know I can’t give up on life. I am here for a reason. Sometimes, I think it was strange that I had to look to who I was as a little girl in order to regain faith in myself at age eighteen. But I think everyone can look back on their early years and see that it was then that they knew how to live in peace and happiness.
I have plans for myself now. Once I graduate from high school this spring, I plan on going to college to major in journalism. I want to be a writer someday. And I am prepared for whatever challenges life may bring. I have a role model to look up to for strength, and who is guiding me through life. My hero is a seven-year-old girl, smiling back at me from a photo on my desk.
Raegan Baker
[EDITORS’ NOTE: For more information regarding obsessive compulsive disorder, log on to www.ocdresource.com.]
A Little Coaching
The two important things I did learn were that you are as powerful and strong as you allow yourself to be, and that the most difficult part of any endeavor is taking the first step, making the first decision.
Robyn Davidson
For me, it was normal to feel lost at the inter-camp track and swim meet. Four camps of kids were ready to lead their teams to a blue ribbon and win the day. Not me. I was too little to be a leader and too skinny to be an athlete. I knew this by the time I was twelve, because my camp counselors and the other kids reminded me of it every chance they got. So when our camp needed a fourth runner in the two-mile race around the lake, I knew I was no one’s first choice.
I hid in the shade of a maple tree as they called the names of the runners. My body tensed as I heard a counselor call, “Noah! Where’s Noah! He’s in this race!”
It was Bronto. His name was really Alan Bronstein, but everyone called him Bronto. He spotted me under the tree and lifted me up by my elbows. It was more than just his name that qualified him for his “Brontoism.”
“Noah, we need a twelve-year-old who hasn’t been in other events to run the two-mile.”
“But you’ve got three guys.”
“We need four. You’re in.”
He gave me a push toward the starting line. Trying to save myself from the humiliation of taking last place as four camps watched, I pleaded with him.
“But I don’t know the way around the lake!”
“You’re in. Just follow Craig.” Bronto smiled.
Craig was my friend and the fastest runner in our camp. And then Bronto said, “When you make it to the last stretch on the field, just throw your head back and run.”
At the starting line, I stood next to Craig and trembled.
“On your mark . . . get set . . .” The gun cracked and sixteen of us took off. Kicking up dust on the dirt road leading to the lakeshore path, I was determined not to get lost. I stayed close on Craig’s heels. A little too close for Craig, I guess, because he shouted at me, “Back off!”
I did. Two guys passed me but I kept my eye on Craig.
It was tiring. The distance was widening between Craig and me. We made the turn from the dusty road onto the muddy, wooded trail that wound around the lake back to the field. Through the trees I saw Craig slip and fall out of sight. A runner from another camp passed him.
In a moment, he was up again and running. He yelled to me, “Watch the roots. They’re slimy!” Struggling to keep my legs moving, I looked down and saw the tree root stripped of its bark. I puffed over it. Fifty yards later I was out of breath, but I turned up the hill into the sunlight again, which shone on the open field. My energy was spent. I scrambled up, ready to see the rest of the pack crossing the finish line and was about to drop to my knees and quit, when I saw not the fifteen guys that I thought would be in front of me, but three. The crowd was roaring, but I could hear Bronto over the rest of them, yelling, “Run!”
I threw my head back and told my legs to go. I never looked ahead and I never looked back for those last hundred yards. I felt free. Nobody was telling me what I was, or what I wasn’t. My legs were running a race against my brain and I was winning.
I didn’t know when I crossed the finish line. Bronto caught me and I collapsed—winded, but happy that I finished. Then I realized Bronto wasn’t just holding me up. He was hugging me!
“You flew! You flew, man! Second! You passed two guys!”
There was a crowd of kids around me patting me on the back, giving me high-fives. I had come in second. Craig had finished first . . . by a step, they said.
They gave me a red second-place ribbon. Even with that and all the high-fives and cheers of the day, the best prize that I walked away with was my confidence. That year I discovered I could do a lot of things if I put my energy into them.
I never got to say thanks to Bronto right after the race. But during the next events, I spotted him over at the lake. He was coaching a reluctant kid who was going to swim in the freestyle relay. I ran over to cheer him on. With Bronto coaching, I had no doubt that this was going to be another good race.
Noah Edelson
IN THE BLEACHERS By Steve Moore
IN THE BLEACHERS. ©1977 Steve Moore. Reprinted with permission of UNIVERSAL PRESS SYNDICATE. All rights reserved.
The Last Runner
The annual marathon in my town usually occurs during a heat wave. My job was to follow behind the runners in an ambulance in case any of them needed medical attention. The driver and I were in an air-conditioned ambulance behind approximately one hundred athletes waiting to hear the sharp crack of the starting gun.
“We’re supposed to stay behind the last runner, so take it slowly,” I said to the driver, Doug, as we began to creep forward.
“Let’s just hope the last runner is fast!” He laughed.
As they began to pace themselve
s, the front runners started to disappear. It was then that my eyes were drawn to the woman in blue silk running shorts and a baggy white T-shirt.
“Doug, look!”
We knew we were already watching our “last runner.” Her feet were turned in, yet her left knee was turned out. Her legs were so crippled and bent that it seemed impossible for her to be able to walk, let alone run a marathon.
Doug and I watched in silence as she slowly moved forward. We didn’t say a thing. We would move forward a little bit, then stop and wait for her to gain some distance. Then we’d slowly move forward a little bit more.
As I watched her struggle to put one foot in front of the other, I found myself breathing for her and urging her forward. I wanted her to stop, and at the same time, I prayed that she wouldn’t.
Finally, she was the only runner left in sight. Tears streamed down my face as I sat on the edge of my seat and watched with awe, amazement and even reverence as she pushed forward with sheer determination through the last miles.
When the finish line came into sight, trash lay everywhere and the cheering crowds had long gone home. Yet, standing straight and ever so proud waited a lone man. He was holding one end of a ribbon of crepe paper tied to a post. She slowly crossed through, leaving both ends of the paper fluttering behind her.
I do not know this woman’s name, but that day she became a part of my life—a part I often depend on. For her, it wasn’t about beating the other runners or winning a trophy, it was about finishing what she had set out to do, no matter what. When I think things are too difficult or too time-consuming, or I get those “I-just-can’t-do-its,” I think of the last runner. Then I realize how easy the task before me really is.
Lisa Beach