So at some point I asked myself, “What can she do in the present to make my situation ‘right’?”

  Thankfully, I soon realized that blame shifting accomplished nothing but rendered me powerless to create the change I so passionately wanted.

  So, I quickly turned my anger and shame onto myself until I realized that blaming myself without forgiving myself was just as futile and destructive as blaming my mother. In the beginning, though, I didn’t realize just how powerful and crucial self-forgiveness was to winning my losing battle. Somehow, though, I instinctively knew that self-forgiveness meant loving myself enough to break my dependence on food.

  Breaking this dependence also required diligence, for the process was slow, arduous, and painful, both physically and emotionally. I counted calories and walked — initially only for fifteen minutes at a time, for my arms and legs rubbed together, chaffed, bled, and then scabbed. In twenty-four months, I also learned to distinguish the difference between true physical hunger and emotional hunger as I grasped an important lesson: If I wasn’t physically hungry, eating wasn’t a solution. The solution was, however, embracing my fears and becoming vulnerable long enough to examine my emotional triggers — those catalysts that could easily put me back on the compulsive-addictive cycle of dependence.

  During my two-year journey, I lost 165 pounds but gained a deeper, healthier appreciation of the value of forgiveness; forgiveness minimized my fears — relinquishing their control over me. In that sense, forgiveness eventually led to understanding; understanding led to freedom; freedom led to remedy; and remedy led to hope.

  Hope keeps me strong as I look in the mirror and admit to myself, “I’m Sara and I’m a food addict.”

  Saying this statement is a gentle reminder of who I am, where I’ve been, and what I could easily revert back to if I didn’t remain mindful of the many lessons I learned during my journey of self-discovery.

  ~Sara Etgen-Baker

  Life Reignited

  When we lose one blessing, another is often most unexpectedly given in its place.

  ~C.S. Lewis

  October 19 started out like any other morning. A single mom, I rushed about the house getting my son and myself ready for work and daycare. I remember putting on my favorite pair of jeans even though I should have worn something a bit dressier for work. As we headed out the door that morning I tripped over some dinosaur toys strewn across the entryway. I told my son that when we got home that night we were going to have to really clean up the house so we didn’t break a leg on all those toys. I dropped him off at daycare and headed to work.

  I hadn’t been at work ten minutes when the call came. My house was on fire. My boss rushed me to my home. As we turned onto my street, all I could see were fire trucks and police cars. We parked half a block away and I ran up the street. I reached my driveway to see the thick black smoke rolling out of my house. A fireman was chopping holes in my roof with an axe.

  I remember officers talking with me, neighbors offering hugs, friends arriving, the fire chief explaining to me what would happen next, and the smell of the smoke.

  Hours passed as I stood in the driveway and watched the firefighters work. They chopped holes in my home and threw burnt items out the windows.

  As I watched I started to laugh. I didn’t laugh because house fires are particularly funny. I laughed because I had told my son we had to clean the house tonight and now that seemed like an impossible task. I laughed because I was wearing my favorite jeans and we all know how hard it is to find a great pair of jeans. But most of all I laughed because I had two options in that moment.

  I could give in to the pain and cry, or I could choose to find the joy and laughter in the darkest of situations. I made the choice in that moment, in my driveway, surrounded by smoke, to laugh. I made the decision to find the positive and focus on that.

  The fire allowed my son and me to rebuild our lives. Our lives were spared that day. We had the chance to start over fresh, to create the best life possible for us. The possessions that I thought meant so much were gone. But the things that really mattered in our lives stayed intact. Joy, gratitude, laughter — those things can’t be burnt!

  In the weeks after the fire, we were blessed by the generosity of friends and strangers alike. Our new apartment was bare, but our hearts were full and we were happy.

  I learned that you really need very little to survive. Instead of eating at a kitchen table, we had lots of picnics on the living room floor. All the toys my son had before were barely missed.

  Instead, we spent more time playing outside together, reading, and listening to music. All those knickknacks that I thought I had to have were replaced, but only with things I truly loved or that my son and I created together.

  In our new life, we banned excess. When you each have only a few outfits, it makes laundry day much easier. Since I didn’t have to spend so much time picking up the house, I actually had time to do some of the things I loved again. I sat and read a great book. I created art pieces to hang in our new place. I started getting a full night’s sleep every night.

  The fire simplified my life. The power that “stuff” had over me before was gone. My heart was more open and my mind was calmer.

  Instead of just creating a new home I was able to create a new life. A life that I designed from scratch. This new life was filled with laughter, creativity, fun, gratitude, and very little stuff.

  The fire lit a spark in me that had been out for a very long time. My passion for life was reignited and I was ready to live again. With my son beside me, and wearing my favorite jeans, I was able to laugh in the face of tragedy.

  ~Jessie Wagoner

  A Long Hard Fight

  Life is very interesting . . . in the end, some of your greatest pains become your greatest strengths.

  ~Drew Barrymore

  My friend died on April 13th. I remember sitting in that dirty bathroom stall with her, passing a pipe filled with the same evil that took her life. One day we were lost, struggling, and addicted, yet determined to change. Within hours, however, my friend, who I will call Serenity here, lost her chance.

  It only took one hit for me to become addicted. Serenity took a little longer, but within months she was a full-blown addict. We wore the same clothes for days. Showers were a privilege, and food was revolting. Glass shards took the place of our meals, our mothers, our hearts and our souls.

  We weren’t forced into this life. We weren’t born into poverty. We had families that would die for us. We had everything we wanted.

  Our lives gave the impression of being picture-perfect, and we kept the tormenting thoughts and evil flashbacks well hidden. We believed nobody would understand, nobody except our pipe, and the thick white clouds of smoke that filled our lungs. Addiction pushed us out of our homes and into the back seat of the man with the powdered devil. School was replaced with drug binges and the temporary relief of the high. We lost contact with our families and with our true selves.

  On April 13th, we were two very sick teenage girls. We had been up for days, and Serenity’s demeanor was not normal. She passed up hitting the pipe, and talked about her family instead. I could tell she needed to go home. The drug was becoming less and less effective. The hateful thoughts grew and our self-respect died. We weren’t meant for this life.

  We brushed our knotted hair and put on our cleanest clothes. Serenity was the first to be dropped off. We said our usual goodbye and I love you.

  Not much later I arrived at my parents’ home. I knocked tentatively on the door. My mother’s relief-stricken face appeared. No judgment. No anger. Her embrace was the most comforting I had ever felt. My father’s eyes quickly filled with tears the moment he saw me, his broken, sickly-thin, addicted baby girl. His embrace told me, “I will protect you forever.”

  I spent the next few hours getting reacquainted with a home filled with love. I lay on my bed, staring into the familiar, innocent face of my childhood dog, the same innocence I had possessed before the drugs.

  The telephone rang. The call was for me. It was Serenity’s mother.

  I expected a long speech. I expected hateful words. I wish that was what I heard. Instead, I heard cries of agony. “She’s dead.”

  I was filled with a sorrow so deep it literally hurt. My best friend, the only person who ever understood me, was no longer here. My heart shattered. Hours later, there was another knock on the door.

  I thought it was Serenity when I first saw her. She wasn’t dead? Was she really right here? But it was her sister. She told me how her sister, my best friend, had lost her life. After arriving home, Serenity had smoked a stash of meth she had hidden months before. While under the influence of that poison, she pulled the trigger of a small pistol.

  People often ask me why I think my friend killed herself. I always respond with the same answer. She didn’t take her life. The drugs did.

  People thought the loss of my best friend would end my drug use immediately. But I thought giving up the crystal would mean giving up the only friend I had left. I don’t remember much of the next few months, other than countless meetings with my drug dealer and sleepless nights spent weeping. I wasn’t really living at all. The only thing keeping me on this planet was remembering the tears of Serenity’s mother, tears I would never want my own mom to shed.

  Then it happened. I felt myself being poked and prodded with needles. I could hear the sobs, so familiar, sobs of a mother losing her child. I heard an incessant ringing, and beeps so loud they hurt.

  A male voice filled the room: “Toxicology report is back, ma’am. Your daughter has overdosed on crystal meth.”

  My mother screamed.

  I left the hospital nine days later and immediately checked myself into a rehab center. I had been to one before, but I had never been willing to actually change. During my time there, there were dramatic ups and downs, but eventually I began to blossom again.

  It’s been over two years now since I lost my best friend. Her death was one of the biggest hardships of my life. She taught me so much during her time here on earth, but her death taught me even more. I’ve been sober for a year now, and I can honestly say I’ve never felt better.

  My mother still worries, but her worry no longer consumes her. I’ve come to accept and love the person I am.

  ~Jeanette Rubin, age 17

  Two Sisters

  Nothing in life is to be feared. It is only to be understood.

  ~Marie Curie

  “You may NOT put down your chalk; you may NOT return to your desk until you have correctly solved the math problem!” bellowed Sister. Once again I would be the reason my row of students lost the math relay.

  This scenario played out again and again throughout my parochial school years in the 1950’s. Math to me was a foreign language from another planet. No amount of study or tutoring could make me see its logic.

  Being math-challenged caused me much verbal humiliation and shame. One Sister in particular was merciless in her attacks. After that exceptionally traumatic school year my parents transferred me to public school.

  Unfortunately, those feelings of low self-esteem and inadequacy followed me through college and into adulthood. Trying new things and taking risks, even for fun, were still out of my grasp because of my fear of failure.

  Marriage and motherhood were wonderful and gratifying additions to my life in the years to come, but I still lacked the self-confidence to fully enjoy life. Seeking therapy was the biggest step forward in my healing.

  As I grew in confidence, I decided to find my parochial school principal. Finding her and beginning a correspondence with her was the beginning of a miracle. She not only remembered me, she apologized for the torment I had endured at the hands of the other Sister. She then asked if I could find it in my heart to pray for the other Sister, as she was terribly ill. I did. Time passed, and the notes from Sister became fewer and then stopped. Worried, I phoned the retirement center to learn she was very ill and had been moved to a nursing facility for retired nuns. Continuing to write to her even though I knew she couldn’t respond became my gift to her.

  Once again time passed and one day I received an e-mail from a nun visiting the same nursing home as my former principal. She introduced herself as a friend of Sister’s and said she had noticed the cards and letters from me. She was interested in me because her own sister, also a retired nun, lived in the same facility. Her reason for writing was to ask if I knew her sister.

  The letters of her name jumped from the computer screen into every cell of my body! There in black and white was the name of the abusive nun from my childhood.

  Paralyzed, unable to speak, my brain could not take in what my eyes were seeing. This could not be!

  It was three days before I was able to respond to this email. “Yes, I knew her, she was my fifth grade teacher,” were the only words in my e-mail.

  Several days later, mustering the courage to write more, I asked about her sister and her life as a teacher. It was interesting to learn she only taught grade school several years, was sent back to school, earned two PhD degrees, spoke five languages fluently, and taught at the college level in the U.S., Mexico and Peru. She was a brilliant woman who just could not teach children. These words were like balm on an open wound.

  Beginning a correspondence with my former teacher was difficult at first, but got easier. She couldn’t write back because of severe Parkinson’s disease, but her sister was the go between for us. Now there were two nuns I was writing to in the same facility, my principal AND the abusive nun!

  Here were two elderly, sick women, their careers over, nearing the end of their lives, and here was I, wanting so much to become a happier, healthier person, creating new ways of thinking and feeling, in addition to letting go of the past.

  Crocheting two afghans, collecting class photos and mementos, booking a flight to the East Coast, I began the healing journey of a lifetime! To say I was not terrified would be a lie, but I was excited for the chance to try and heal my past.

  Heading east with mixed feelings, there was no turning back. I would see this through to the end no matter what.

  My principal was no longer the lively, intellectual, whirling dervish she had once been, but she had the same kind face and smile. Over lunch, we shared old times and enjoyed the books and mementos I brought along. Especially enjoyable were the memories of the operettas and plays she conducted. She was a wonderful musician.

  The afghan I made for her was the perfect color for her room and she gratefully wrapped it around herself. Talking about both our lives became as easy as talking to a dear friend. Embracing her as I said goodbye, I marveled at the delicate, lovely woman I beheld even though her mind was beginning to fail.

  Standing in the hallway outside my former fifth-grade teacher’s room, saying a silent prayer that I would bear up through the anxiety, I stepped into the room. I wanted to see with my own eyes that she was just an old, sick woman who could no longer hurt me. At first, her steely gaze nearly stopped my heart. But she recognized me and then she grinned from ear to ear and her outstretched arms bid me to come to her bedside. Approaching with her afghan (which turned out to be the perfect color for her room too), I sat down and began showing her photos and mementos from school. She had a fabulous memory for details in the photos. She also told me about her years of teaching college and how much she loved her students.

  Suddenly she stopped talking, and rested her hands in her lap with her head down. There were tears streaming down her cheeks as her eyes pleaded for my forgiveness. She opened her arms to me as I leaned forward to be enfolded in love by the woman I had feared so long.

  Sister then told me my class was her first after she became a nun. There were forty-five students in the class and her instructions from the Mother Superior at the convent were to maintain complete control over every student, all day, every day, no matter what. She revealed she had no idea how to help with my math block other than to (scare) it into me.

  She also told me that she was more afraid of me and the other students than we could ever have been of her. With this new revelation, I sank deeper into her arms and we laughed and cried together as both our hearts began to mend.

  Both sisters are gone now, but my miracle journey of healing continues to this day. To be set free from the bonds of fear and to receive love from someone who I thought was incapable of love has been one of the greatest blessings of my life.

  I can now smile when I think of the two Sisters, and I know they are smiling at me too.

  ~Ann Michener Winter

  Listen to Your Friends

  The Year of Exploration

  You can’t be brave if you’ve only had wonderful things happen to you.

  ~Mary Tyler Moore

  Touretta Lynn’s School of Hard Knocks was no joke. My hands trembled as I double-knotted the laces on my white roller skates and tightened the throatlatch on my helmet. I raised my eyes to the dozen or so heavily-inked women gliding around the cement track. Though no two women were dressed exactly the same, there was a semblance of a uniform — ripped T-shirts, black fishnet stockings, and spandex shorts so tiny they’d make marathon runners blush. The women’s expressions were also uniformly grim as they deftly crossed their skates on the turns, then pumped their arms to speed down the straightaways.

  A heavy metal door slammed behind me, and Naptown Roller Girls Coach Sin Lizzie entered the Warehouse Lair. She wore blue nursing scrubs, and the blood-stain resistant fabric wasn’t lost on me. At least she probably knew CPR and how to stitch up an open head wound. In a sport where the athletes adopt pseudonyms like Sandra Day O’Clobber and Nancy Drewblood, her medical training would be in high demand.