Savage Sixteen

Darian HATES when I write about her.  She pretty much HATES what I write.  Grudgingly, she will acknowledge that I’m a good writer, but she thinks I should not write about mom and dad dying, Shayne having a mental illness, or cancer.  She thinks I should write about going to an all girls boarding school, or working as a cocktail waitress, or learning to be a tattoo artist.  She also thinks that I settled by living in a small town as a teacher.  She thinks I’d be happier if I quit and moved away and became a writer or a professional artist.  She also HATES that she looks like me and she does everything she can to set herself apart.  She dyes her hair, wears dramatic make-up and bold clothes.  She calls me annoying, ridiculous, impossible.  Yep, she’s sixteen.  I never got the expression “sweet sixteen.”  It should be “savage sixteen.”

Savage or not, one of my goals this summer was to spend time with Darian.  As a parent, I hate to admit it, but I haven’t really raised Darian.  She was kind of raised by the village.  I went back to work when she was only five weeks old and my parents took more care of her than I did in the early years.   Darian had her own room at her grandparents house and her own bar stool at the kitchen counter and could get my parents to do anything.  If she said, “Grandpa, dance.”  He literally would pull out some shimmers and shakes.  If she told my mom she was hungry, out would pop the pots and pans.  I’ll never forget Darian saying, “Grandpa, I want to go to the beach.”  Two weeks later we were all in Tahoe spreading our blankets on the sandy lake shore in California.  When I did take Darian to work with me, she went from teacher to teacher, or there would be some middle schooler only glad to play with her.  I will never forget finding Darian sitting on a skateboard with one of my roughest middle school boys.  She was wearing someone’s beanie, watching the boys do tricks on the ramp in the school courtyard.  She was four.  She always liked older kids, because she had Shayne.  He was eight when she was born and he changed her, rocked her, entertained her by singing and dancing and reading to her.  He made blanket forts with her and took her to the park and movies.  He also helped her out with her chores–which meant he did them for her.    Instead of shutting her out of his teenage life, she was a sidekick, always included in his activities.  When Shayne got his license, he took over the chauffeuring.  Sometimes he’d take her to Sonic before school and drop her off late, telling her, “Walk in, like you own it.”  I spent time with Darian, but there were lots of other people making sure she got everything she needed.  Raising her was never all on me.  So when my parents died and Shayne got sick, the village took over.  James and my girlfriends made sure she got to where she needed to go, her friends shouldered her tears and her choir teacher and drama teacher and history teacher filled her hours. And honestly, she was the least of my problems.  She wasn’t lost and on the streets; she wasn’t an insurance agent, or a lawyer, or a doctor.  She was independent and strong and doing okay, or so I thought.  Or at least that’s what I wanted to think.

Last summer after I’d been diagnosed with cancer, I took Darian to a doctor for a physical. She was given a depression assessment and she came out kind of high on it.  I guess I wasn’t that surprised, but it did make me realize that at fifteen, D had her own shit storm.  Her grandparents were dead.  Her brother was not the same person who had been her champion and her comic relief.  And her mother had cancer.  Plus she had all the normal things all teenage girls have to deal with.  So I tried then to get it together and be a better mom for her.  Shayne was in Maryland and I thought it would give Darian and I time alone to build a new relationship.  It kind of did, but it also pointed out how deep her pain was.  My first indication was when I was cleaning Shayne’s room after he left.  He had spent a year in various stages of psychosis and his room left a trail of his downward decline.  He had journals filled with his spiraling thoughts.  There were piles of ashes where he’d burned documents and set fires to keep the soul snatchers at bay.  There were caches of his medicine that he’d hidden away.  Plus debris from his childhood–Pokemon cards, VHS tapes, frisbees and mementos from high school–his athletic letters, drawings from his girlfriend, Destination Imagination trophies and pins.  I worked on the room for a couple of days, boxing stuff up for Goodwill, sorting through the trash, reading over the journals.  Darian came in at one point and saw all the movies and things that I had boxed up and accused me of throwing away his childhood.  She wrapped her arms around “Speed Limit” (Shayne’s giant teddy bear) and sobbed.  For hours.  At first, I didn’t think much of the tears, but as it went on, I got worried.  I didn’t really know how to help her.  I’m a “suck it up and deal with it kind of girl,” she is not.  And that’s when I realized that maybe she needed someone other than me to talk to about her feelings.

I don’t really get depression.  It’s not like I’ve never been depressed, but for me I can turn it around–like exercise, or looking for the bright side.  I don’t get that “bone-crushing, I can’t get out of bed, I want to die” kind of phenomena.  As much as I want to deny it, that stuff is real for Darian.  I’d rather brag about her grades or post pictures of her in her glittery choir dresses.  But a clearer picture would be of her room–this giant mess of clothes and dishes and empty Coke cans that she hasn’t thrown away in weeks.  I cleaned her room, because she is so overwhelmed and crippled with her emotions that she didn’t even know where to start.  That I understand.  I can fix a messy bedroom, even if it is overwhelming and unbelievable, what I can’t fix is her heart.

Parenting is a tough gig.  It’s easy to make mistakes and hard to fix them.  A kid isn’t a malleable marble of clay either.  They each have their own emotions and desires and goals.  Darian might look like me, but she is her own person, on her own journey.  I’m doing my best to love her and support her in ways that I can.  She is stronger than she knows; and I hope that all those things the village has given her–confidence, resilience, passion will bring her through this time of pain.