Growing Pains

“Hey dad a lot happened today um so there was a drug bust at school today. They found weed in a few of the kids lockers. I know what your going to say and I wasn’t apart of it or anything but I did know some of the kids from elementary school. I met my counselor too he was nice. I got an A on my math test it was kinda hard without you helping me study but I did it.” I held the mahogany box closer to my chest and let a few tears fall.

One fish, two fish, red fish, blue fish by doctor seuss was my favorite book and my dad would read it to me every night. I was young enough to still be sleeping in my parent’s bed. We would sit on the bed flipping through random pages of the book and talking for hours beyond my bedtime, laughing and discussing “what ifs” popping up on every page.

By the time I was around 8 I had a talent for asking stupid questions like what spoons smelled like when they’re freshley made. When dad and I went for walks through the trails by my house the constant flow of questions drained from my mind and filled the silence that never seem to last too long. We’d walk for hours and for hours he’d answer my questions. He never got annoyed or tired in fact he had stupid questions of his own. He’d ask what would trees have to say if they could talk. Trees outlined the trails where we stood with what seemed like a forest on either side. It felt like another world where we could say or do whatever we wanted and we did.

I was never great at math but I always managed. Probably because dad would always be the one to explain it to me. He had a way with numbers and somehow made math, of all things, interesting. Something my sixth grade teacher just couldn’t do. Dad pulled out my brothers legos and taught me about exponents and fractions using stories and characters he’d make with the toys. After a few short hours we finished the summer packet that I waited for the last minute to start. It was late so we both said “good night” and went to bed. I just didn’t think that would be the last time I'd tell him that.

I woke up to the sound of policemen in my house. I looked out the window and saw the flashing red and blue lights parked next to an ambulance in my driveway. I ran downstairs in my pajamas to see two men dragging a body out the door. It’s face was gray and paper thin. White milky eyes wide open. It’s veins bulge on it’s lifeless hands and it’s black fingertips wrapped around a bag of gummy bears. My dad’s favorite snack. It took me a few minutes to realize that thing was him.

I didn’t cry or at least I don’t think I did, my mind was racing and I didn’t know what to do. It didn’t feel real. It felt more like a lucid dream and I stood there waiting to wake up. Didn’t feel sad, I didn’t feel anything. Reality felt so far away and I didn’t bother to look for it. I just stood there, Alone.

Fast forward two days as I walked through the doors of my first day of seventh grade. I was 12 going on 30. I didn't feel like a kid. That right was robbed from me the day they carried my dad out the door.

I remember walking through the hallways during the second week of school and by then everyone new. I don’t know how, I didn’t tell anyone, when one person found out it spread like wildfire. I’d get pity drenched looks and sympathetic smiles from people i’ve never met. I'd get the occasional “i’m sorry” followed with quick look away.

Other than that no one brought it up and I felt ignored, no one seemed to care that my dad died. Even if it wasn’t the easiest thing to talk about I’d hope that our friendship would mean more to you than just a few minutes of being uncomfortable. But it took me a while to realize that they’re just kids. They don’t know how to talk about it what to do. Death isn’t exactly a light topic. A topic that’s meant for adults because by then you’re expected to have matured and automatically know what just what to say, but most adults don’t know. They just don’t, never learned, never needed to learn. so if most adults can’t say the right thing how can it be expected for kid to even comprehend the ideas and emotions that come with the death of a loved one.

It’s hard enough to grow up why not add the pressure of a dead parent on top of that. There’s no hand book on how to grow up or what to do about this and that. There’s just “go” it’s like when you first learn how to swim and your parent is there and tells you “remember to kick your legs and move your arms” and you go in and your kicking but you just stay there flailing trying to desperately keep your head above water. It’s like that except it’s “remember to always say no to drugs” or ‘remember to get A’s” but what’s not taken into account are other kids, peer pressure, homework, even how the kid feels. It takes time to get into a rhythm and to be able to keep your head above water without struggling, but life happens and you lose rhythm and your head goes completely under. I see that a lot actually.

Kids that I played tag with, ive known since kindergarten, that I laughed with are being dragged by police. They’re skipping class and getting into fights and I can’t help but think they weren’t so violent a few years ago. So what happened. When did things change.

By the fourth month of school I knew exactly which hallways to avoid so I didn’t get yelled at have fake punches thrown just two inches from my face purposely diverted just in time miss.They laughed and I didn’t know what to do so I laughed too. Not a normal laugh , no, one of those laughs where you feel that heavy feeling in your chest and the tears start to swell and you don’t even realize that you’ve stopped breathing, but you just laugh harder and hope they go away. It was an unnatural feeling but It was a feeling I got used to. By then I also started therapy. It was nice, and she seemed to have an answer for all of my questions. I felt heard and that’s all I really wanted.

After the sessions I’d sit in the car to drive home and mom would apologize for not being able to get me into therapy sooner. “It’s just impossible” she’d say. I don’t know if you’ve ever tried but trying to get a child therapist or psychiatrist is like trying to find a needle in a haystack except the needle is an inch long and the hay is on fire. I spent four months watching my mom yell into the phone about insurance, money, and stuff I didn’t really understand. I just saw her angry cause she couldn’t get me the help I needed. So i’d go upstairs and turn off the lights, listen to Lincoln park and cry. Those were the days. But it got me thinking mom is willing to sit there and make sure what needs to get done gets done and if that means screaming then so be it but what about the parents that aren’t willing to put up with that every other night for four months.

Why is it so difficult to get kids help? There are so many kids who need help but can’t get it and maybe that’s what’s going on at school maybe all these kids are failing and getting into fights because they just want to be heard but nobody knows what’s wrong or maybe they’re parents can’t get the help that child needs. Why can I get help but they can’t do I even deserve it. What if they hurt themselves is that because of me, because they tried to get the spot but couldn’t because it was already taken by me. Maybe it should be the other way around maybe I should be the one who…

That’s when mom asks me about my day and I realize I'm still in the car. And I tell her about how the boys in my history class got into a fight, I told her about how my science teacher yelled at us cause one kid tried to eat the experiment. And we laughed. The lights outside were filled with orange clouds, fall was just beginning to show its face and mom was reaching to turn up the volume because “hey there delilah” started playing and she knows how much I love that song. At that moment I realized that I didn’t just lose a father but my mom lost a husband. A friend she’s been in love with since college. I knew she was struggling that she was trying so hard to stay above water and she did that with two kids and a dead husband. If she can stay above water with all that then so can I.

A year passed and school’s starting up again. I feel better even if it’s just a little bit. I feel okay. Then my friend runs up to me crying saying That all she wanted to do was get some water when some boys showed up and said she was hot for a black girl she yelled at them and they tried to undo the braids in her hair that her mother spent hours braiding. She asked me if she looked better without them. I said her braids were beautiful she smiled but somehow I don’t think she believed me. That was the second day of school.

It was always one thing and then the other. There was always something going on. My friends would come to me crying. About what seemed to be everything. It could be a test, a boy, or they’re just sad and they don’t know why. So I sit there and I listen. I tell them what I wanted to hear just a year ago because I know the feeling of feeling alone.

But as the months passed I realized I was in love with the idea of being happy. That all this fighting is worth something.

Towards the middle of my freshman year I was in a lot of group therapy, and believe it or not I was frequently asked by the other kids “what did it feel like? You know… when your dad um passed away” and well I felt like a pinata at a birthday party and god was a 13 yearold boy holding a baseball bat who’s parents just told him they’re getting a divorce. It was rough. But I lived. And that’s something to be proud of.

Because After 3 years of therapy, I learned that no emotion was bad that each one told you something important. That anger told you that there’s a problem that can be worked out. That fear told me to be careful. Depression said that you need help that you need to do something before it gets out of hand. And if I felt sadness that I didn't feel nothing. I felt something, it was a reminder that I'm still human that I'm still alive. Happiness screams at me that these sad times don’t last forever. It flails its arms and pounds at my chest screaming “there, there! There’s a reason to stick a round that these years of fighting weren’t for nothing. There's a light at the end of a tunnel and you’re almost there.

It’s been three years since my dad died and it’s the beginning of tenth grade. I’m trying my best and I know for a fact that no matter what happens, no matter where the future takes me i’ll be okay. And that’s so much more than I could say last year.

Oh the places you’ll go by doctor seuss is my brothers favorite book and I read it to him every night.