matt never did drugs. he spent his afternoons and nights riding his skateboard through backstreets of the small town that raised him. his friends would experiment with the usual substances, but not matt.
christy was his sister; six years older. she and matt were close. they both liked tattoos and metal guitar riffs. christy would paint incredible portraits and abstract images, and matt would jam on his guitar. they shared stories, and they always said "i love you" before bed.when matt and i started dating, the first family member i was introduced to was his sister, christy.
"see this tattoo on my wrist. christy has it, too. we got them together." he lit up whenever he talked about her.
matt was at the peak of his skateboarding career, and christy was still painting. she was beautiful. they looked a lot alike - black hair, blue eyes. christy was petite - her makeup dark and interesting - her lips, red and passionate. she looked the part she played - the artist, the once-rebel who survived hell and was now back, living life while revisiting the shadows of her past with each stroke of her paintbrush.
when matt was in junior high, the police took christy away. his parents wouldn't tell him why, but he found out on his own. heroin. she had been doing heroin, and they caught her. she was only eighteen. she spent the next several months in rehab while matt waited, guitar riffs, skate tricks - waited.
when she finally did come home, things were different. christy seemed distant and matt didn't know what to say. a few months later, they came again - the police. matt was sleeping, and they knocked down the door. his sister was screaming as they dragged her away, this time to prison.
i asked matt what it was like, how that affected him. i tried to imagine hearing her scream. i wondered how it was possible for matt to sleep when he knew his sister was cold and alone in her cell somewhere.
"i couldn't," he said. "i couldn't sleep."
"did you visit her?" i asked.
matt was silent.
"did you ever talk to her about it, tell her how much it hurt you, tell her that you couldn't sleep, tell her that you were afraid?"
there was as long silence. "she's okay now. she's been clean for eight years. she's great. it's over. the drugs, it's all over." matt spoke to the wind when he spoke of christy's past. his voice would fade out into oblivion and then he'd change the subject.
when christy was finally released from jail and then rehab, matt's family decided to move. they moved south, away from christy's reputation and the backstreets where matt had conquered curbsides and half-pipes in the small town by the sea. christy was clean and never again did matt wake up to his sister's arrests, or a cold sweat after the nightmares that plagued him while she was away. she had been clean for six months, and then two years, and then four. matt went to high school and christy moved back up north to go to school.
"were you afraid?" i asked.
"nope. she was going back to school. i was glad. she was going to pursue her art. she was so talented, you know," matt whispered.
i knew. i had seen her artwork. it hung in matt's room, in his kitchen and bathroom. she had even painted straight on the walls. matt let her paint all over them.
matt and i dated during my senior year. he was my first serious relationship. christy came down to visit matt and the family pretty often, and whenever she came down, matt would rush to be with her. she was the woman in his life, more than i ever was. christy and matt were best friends. they were like nothing i had ever seen. matt would light up when christy entered a room. he was so proud of her. she was his angel, his big sister, and everything she said was amusing, brilliant or just cool.
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 28 - 32
No comments:
Post a Comment