Controlled Chaos (continued)
by Tammy Copechal-Beach
When she was in seventh grade, she tried out for the cheerleading squad for the sixth time, and she made it. I have never seen a girl more proud of herself. She was a cheerleader during her eighth grade year, which made her a senior, with all the pomp and circumstance that goes along with it. The year started off great. She had plenty to do with practice and games. She would come home from practice so exhausted that she would sleep for at least three or four hours a night. Then, the season ended, and it was back to the same old pattern of being up all night. This turned out to be a blessing in disguise.
At 3:25 a.m. on Dec. 13, 2004, Kalee came storming in my bedroom, screaming.
"Mom, wake up. Kyle is being an asshole."
"What do you mean?" I asked her.
"He's been in the bathtub for two hours and won't let me in. I have to go pee."
My heart sank like a stone. Kyle is a very predictable son. He comes home from school, grabs a snack, and goes up to his room to play videogames. He always takes a shower, never a bath, and takes it before school. There was something seriously wrong. With dread and my heart pounding out of my chest, I raced to the bathroom as fast as possible and knocked on the door. I called his name several times.
“Kyle, open the door.”
No answer.
“Kyle, honey, open the door now … please. If you don't answer me, I am coming in. All right, I'm coming in, so if you're naked, I'm going to see everything.”
With my heart and my dinner in my throat, I reached for the door handle. I slowly turned the doorknob with ice-cold, trembling fingers.
The air was heavy with the smell of iron and burning dust. My only son was covered in goose bumps, sitting in cold bath water tinged red by an old electric heater that was just inches from the water. He was white as a ghost, except for his bright red cheeks. The pain and tears I saw etched on Kyle's face will be forever burned in my mind. I have no idea where I found the strength to remain calm that night. I gently shut the door and said, “Honey, please don't, I'm sure we can find a solution to what's making you hurt. Let's just talk about it, OK?"
“Nothing's going to make it stop, Mom.”
“Just tell me what's wrong, OK?”
“I can't.”
“Please, honey, please don't do this. … It's not the answer.”
“It's too late, Mom. It just hurts too much. I can't think anymore, Mom.”
“Do you just not want to tell me?”
“Why doesn't anyone like me?”
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