the difference between holding on to a hurt or releasing it with forgiveness is like the difference between laying your head down at night on a pillow filled with thorns or a pillow filled with rose petals.
loren fischer
she was my best friend, and i loved her. she was the coolest girl in junior high and everyone wanted to be like her... and she chose me to be her best friend. her name was cindy. she was beautiful with her black hair and tall, thin body. while the rest of us in eighth and ninth grade were still looking amorphous, trying to take shape, cindy was already beautifully poised in her adult body. her mother had died when she was a little girl. she was an only child, and she lived alone with her father. by the time we would get home from school every day, he would already be at work. he wouldn't come home until two or three in the morning, so we had free reign of the house. no parental supervision was the greatest thing we could ask for as teenagers. her house was a big, two-story that was concealed by a large grove of orange trees. you couldn't see the house from the street, and we liked it that way. it added to the mystique and allure that we were always trying to create.
at school she was pretty much the center of attention. one whole corner of the quad was dedicated to cindy and her "followers." if there was new music, clothes, hairstyles or even new ways to take notes or study, you could be fairly sure that it came out of that corner of the quad. even the school faculty caught on to the power this girl held and convinced her to run for class president. cindy and i were voted in as calss president and vice president by a landslide.
by day, we were the acting liaison between students and faculty; by night, we hosted social activities at cindy's house. if we weren't having a party, people would come just to hang out. kids would be there for all kinds of reasons - to talk about relationships, their parents, to do their homework, or just because they knew someone they liked would be showing up.
after everyone left, i would usually spend the night. my mom wouldn't like it very much if it was a school night. sometimes cindy would come back to my house to spend the night, but my mom didn't like that much either because we would stay up all night laughing and talking. cindy didn't like to be home alone.
that following summer, after i came home from vacation with my family, things were starting to change. cindy looked thinner than usual with dark circles under her eyes, and she had started to smoke. the strikingly beautiful girl looked pale and gaunt. she said she missed me a lot. while it was a boost to my ego, i couldn't believe it could be entirely true. after all, there were always people trying to be close to her and get into her circle of friends.
my solution: two weeks at the beach. our parents pitched in to rent a beach house for two weeks. my mom would be the only supervision. in cindy's inimitable style, we collected a group of beach friends within a couple of days. we'd all hang out at this local café during the day, when we were not in the water or on the sand, and at night we'd hang out around this fire pit on the beach.
cindy started to look like her old self, but better. she was tan. she looked great in a bikini, and all the guys on the beach wanted to be around her. but she was still smoking. she told me it calmed her nerves.
one night, cindy came back to the beach house very late. she was all disoriented and noticeably excited. she told me she and this one guy had been drinking and smoking marijuana, and they had gotten together. she said that i had to try marijuana because it made everything better, clearer, in fact. she said she really liked this guy and wanted to run away with him. i knew she was just high, and she'd feel differently in the morning.
when school started that next year, things weren't the same, and i missed the old routine. cindy wanted to get into different things than i wanted, and she started hanging around guys more and more. we would still hang out from time to time, but it wasn't as fun as it used to be. cindy would get really serious and tell me that i just didn't understand how things were. i just thought that she was maturing faster emotionally than the rest of us, like she had physically.
one morning when i arrived at school, there were police cars all around and a lot of nervous activity in the halls. when i proceeded toward my locker, my counselor and another woman stopped me. i was asked to follow them to the office. my heart was pounding so fast and hard that i could hardly catch my breath. my head was racing with the different scenarios that might have caused this odd behavior.
when we all sat down in my counselor's office, the principal came in and took a seat. was i in some kind of trouble? the principal began by talking about life and maturity and circumstances. now my head was really spinning. what was he trying to say? and then my world froze in the time with the words, "... and cindy took her own life last night using her father's gun." i couldn't talk; i couldn't move. tears started streaming from my eyes before my heart could even comprehend the pain. she was only fifteen years old.
as the suicide note explained, her father had repeatedly sexually abused her and she knew no other way out. months after he was arrested, he finally confessed. the note also said something else. it said that the only family she ever knew and cared about was me. she left me a ring that her mother had left to her.
i cried for weeks. how is it that i never knew? we were closer than anyone and talked about everything; how come she never told me that? i was certain that i could have helped her, and i began to blame myself.
after weeks of grief counseling, i came to understand that the burden of cindy's sexual abuse was too much for her to bear, especially when she started to become intimate with boys. the counselor explained to me that her shame was too great to talk about, even to her best friend. it dawned on me how alone she must have felt, and it suddenly became clear to me why she never wanted to spend the night alone in her own house.
my own suffering - weeks of pain and confusion - was eased greatly with all the help and support i received. teachers, counselors, friends and family members all nurtured me. it was clear to everyone that this situation was going to change my life forever, but because i let help in, it subsequently added to my life an aspect of wisdom and compassion. i wish that cindy could have known the relief that comes from letting others help you with your pain.
cindy's suicide note also requested that she be cremated. the note said i should spread her ashes wherever i wanted to. i chose the ocean off the beach where we had spent two weeks that summer.
on the day of the memorial, we rented a boat to take us out to sea. the boat was packed with friends and teachers, even though it was a rainy, overcast day. we stood on the bow and took turns sharing our experiences and love for our friend. when it came time for me to free her ashes, i hesitated. i didn't want to turn them loose in a sea that looked dark and menacing. i thought she had had enough of that in her own life.
my hesitancy gained attention, and both my mother and my counselor stepped up on the platform and put their arms around me. with their support i opened the lid and set my friend free. as some of the ashes hit the surface of the water, the sun broke through for a moment and sent beautiful rays of light that sparkled on the surface of the water. the clouds parted some more and soon the whole both was bathed in warm sunlight. at that moment, i felt calmer than i had in weeks. somehow i knew that the angels had come for my friend and that she would be all right - and so would i.
rosanne martorella
chicken soup for the teenage soul on tough stuff: stories of tough times and lessons learned... copyright © 2001 by jack canfield and mark victor hansen... pages 107 - 109
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