The next morning, I was told that my blood work reported that I was not only dehydrated but also starving. The doctor said he wouldn’t release me until I was strong inside and out. Months passed like this and I continued attending classes with screaming, irrational kids. I felt so isolated. The doctors tried several types of medicines; none of them seemed to be working to keep my food down. They started feeding me intravenously. A needle was stuck in the top of my hand and stayed there, taped, twenty-four hours a day. It was so gross, having a big needle sticking out in my hand. Every morning they would attach a liquid-filled bag that dripped nutrients into my bloodstream. Each night they gave me pills that made me nauseous and want to throw up. I was becoming more and more discouraged. Will I ever be normal again? I wondered. Still, I wouldn’t give up. I knew what I had to do and I tried yet another medication.
When that didn’t seem to do anything, a nurse came into my room, took that morning’s medication out of my hand and suggested that I stand in front of the mirror one hour after each meal and repeat to myself these words, “Yes, I am perfect because God made me.”
I thought she was nuts! If modern medicine couldn’t work, how could saying a few words do the trick? Still, I knew I had to try it. It couldn’t hurt and if it got me off the feeding tube, it was worth it no matter how crazy it sounded. Beside, if it didn’t work, I could tell the nurse that it wasn’t the cure and that at least I tried.
The next meal, I said the words for several minutes. Religiously. I said them for an entire week extending the time every day. After a while, I realized I began saying them as if I meant them and I had been keeping my food down. My bulimia was becoming under control because my mind stopped focusing on throwing up, and started focusing on saying those words! Within a week I stopped needing to be fed through tubes, my stomach had stopped rejecting food and my compulsion to vomit ceased. My mind had been tricked into more positive thinking!
With the support of my counselors and nurses, I continued searching for ways to bolster my self-esteem, so that I would never again be so vulnerable to the judgments of others. I began to read self-esteem books and the Bible to further my self-image. By then, my boyfriend had dumped me. Most of my friends had stopped coming to see me. Even on the day I celebrated my newfound ability to keep my food down, I called my brother to tell him the good news and he said, “You’re making all this up for attention, aren’t you?”
I can’t tell you how much that hurt. Still, I wouldn’t let the outside world’s cruelty diminish my victory or my newly found self-esteem of loving myself no matter what my weight was. Finally, I realized with this new strength, I was well.
I began feeding myself and choosing to be full—literally, spiritually, emotionally and physically. My self-esteem strengthened as I ate, repeated those words, and learned to love myself. By gulping down food, I became the vessel God had created me to be. I was special regardless of what others thought. And, I saw that old boyfriend for what he really was: shallow, close-minded, inconsiderate, and not even worthy of my love in the first place.
It had taken months in the hospital with nurses and counseling to learn a lesson I’ll never forget. Being popular is just an illusion. If you love yourself you are in the “in” crowd. You are an individual gift from God to the world. It’s comforting to know joy comes from being who I am instead of trying to become somebody else’s perfect model.
My first day back to school, my ex-boyfriend actually came up to me and asked me out again. “Wow, you look great. You’re so thin! You want to go to the football game on Friday?”
“No,” I answered, without regret. “I’d rather date someone who loves my heart.”
Me! Accepting me suddenly became a daily celebration of life. I love me! Those three words sound so simple, but living them, believing them makes living so tantalizingly delicious!
Michelle Wallace Campanelli
Center Stage
Answer that you are here—that life exists and identity, that the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.
Walt Whitman
Once upon a time, my life was as orderly as the inside of my locker. I took detailed notes, never talked out of turn, helped put away library books during my free periods, and went to track practice after school. But all that changed the day Mr. Soames made Sara McGee my partner in biology.
“If he thinks I’m touching this, he’s dreaming,” Sara whispered after Mr. Soames told us to make the first incision into the earthworms we were dissecting. She pushed her bangs—they were orange today as opposed to last week’s green—out of her face and frowned.
I took the knife from her hand and split the earthworm neatly down its center.
“Thanks,” she said. She rolled up her sleeves and her silver bangles clattered. “I know I’m a baby, but cutting open animals makes me sick.”
I finished dissecting the worm, and when the period was over, Sara slipped her backpack over her shoulder and asked me to eat lunch with her.
“Okay,” I said, surprised. I followed her to her locker, where she opened a tube of tomato-red lipstick and thickly applied it.
“Want some?” she asked, but I shook my head “no.”
“Just a tiny bit?” she asked again, and before I could stop her, she dabbed it on. Then she removed the tortoise-shell barrette I always wore and lifted my hair into a high ponytail, pulling two tendrils down on either side of my ears.
“Stunning!” she said, standing behind me so that I could see both of us in the little mirror that hung from a hook. Stunning? I wasn’t so sure.
Soon, whenever Sara chewed Juicy Fruit gum in class, I did, too, even though I was careful not to get caught. I wore long skirts like Sara’s, and dangle earrings. She hid in the stacks during study hall and read old magazines and, consequently, so did I. She took me to Papa Jimmy’s and introduced me to double caffé lattes and biscotti dipped in chocolate. She liked to start arguments in world history class about personal freedom and even though I never could do that, I did find myself, miraculously, volunteering to read out loud in Mr. Bernard’s English class.
It was Mr. Bernard, in fact, who pulled me aside and told me I had a flair for drama (we were reading Romeo and Juliet). He also said I should try out for the part of Laura in the junior class production of The Glass Menagerie.
“No way. I could never do that,” I told Sara as soon as we left the room. Secretly, though, I was pleased he had asked.
“Of course you can. You’ll be great,” Sara said. “You have to try out!” She bugged me until I finally agreed.
At the audition, I read a scene with Joe Greenlaw, who I’d never said a word to before. I doubt he knew who I was, but I could recite his activities as if they were listed in alphabetical order under his picture in the yearbook: junior class vice-president; photo editor for the Park Ridge Banner; captain, debate team; soccer goalie.
After we finished, Mrs. Layton, the director, just smiled and said, “Thank you very much,” and the next day the casting list was posted on the bulletin board and there was my name, second from the top, with Joe Greenlaw’s just above it.
I had play rehearsal almost every night, and so I had to use all my free time to catch up on my schoolwork and hardly ever had time to go to Papa Jimmy’s with Sara. Slowly, though, a strange thing began to happen. Homework and chores, babysitting, and even Sara started to fade in importance, but the time I spent at rehearsals was as vivid as the glow-in-the-dark stars on my bedroom ceiling.
Joe talked to me, calling “Laura” from way down the hall. This made me so happy that I didn’t even mind when I saw Rachel Thompson, who had waist-long hair that was shiny as glass, put her arm across his shoulder. One night, during dress rehearsal week, we were standing together on the fire escape outside the auditorium watching the snow flakes gather on the iron railing. Joe told me that deep down inside he was really shy and that he was glad he could be himself with me. “Maybe we should do things together,” he said. “Go ru
nning, go to a dance, I don’t know.” And then we heard Mrs. Layton calling for us, so we ran back inside.
The next day, Sara stood by my locker just before homeroom. “Hi,” she said.
“Hi.”
“I never see you anymore. Except in classes, and that doesn’t count.” She tugged on one of the four stud earrings that lined her ear.
“I know,” I said. “It’s the play. I’m really busy. It’ll be over soon.” I looked closely at Sara, past her makeup, and her jewelry, and the long black cape that covered her shirt and her thick, black hiking boots. She always seemed so bold, the way she stated her opinions as if they were facts, and looked anybody in the eye. But now she was quiet, more like the old me than Sara. I gave her a hug.
“Let’s do something,” she suggested. She looked at the poster on the bulletin board just behind us. It was a drawing of a flapper girl twirling a strand of pearls. “Let’s get a bunch of people together and crash the Winter Carnival dance. We’ll go to the thrift shop and get some beaded dresses.”
A dance. I thought of Joe and of our conversation the night before. And even though I knew, deep down, that it would be a white lie to say he’d invited me to that particular dance, I told her I was busy. “I can’t,” I said. She looked at me and waited. “Joe Greenlaw asked me.”
“Yeah, right,” she said.
“I’m sorry,” I told her. “He did.” Sara picked up her backpack from between her feet and started to walk away.
“Sara!” I called after her.
“Let me know when you can fit me into your busy schedule,” she hissed.
• • • •
This is the part of my story that is really embarrassing—the part that I wish I could tell in third person, as if it really belonged to somebody else. A week after the play was over Joe found me during sixth-period study hall. “I’m sorry,” he said.
I looked at him, not understanding.
“Sara McGee asked me if it was true we were going to the dance together. I’m sorry. I’m going with Rachel.”
I looked down at my feet. The new me was going away, like a picture on a computer screen that fades out. I was sure my ears were bright red.
“I’m sorry,” Joe continued. “It’s nothing personal.” He turned and looked like he was leaving, but then he came back. He put his hand on my arm. “Don’t be embarrassed,” he said. “You know, I should have asked you. I wish I had.” And then he left.
Now Sara passed me in the hall without speaking. I spent most of my free time studying or practicing my sprints. I went back to wearing my plain, comfortable clothes and threw away my makeup. And I only talked when teachers called on me. As if nothing had changed.
But that wouldn’t be true. To Sara, I might have looked the same. Still, deep inside, where she couldn’t see, there was another me. I was brave, I was fun. I got a standing ovation in the middle of a stage, and a boy regretted not asking me to a dance. And it was Sara I had to thank for introducing that girl to me.
Jane Denitz Smith
Finding a Vision
Face your deficiencies and acknowledge them; but do not let them master you. Let them teach you patience, sweetness, insight.
Helen Keller
Six years ago, I went blind. Due to a severe herpes simplex virus in my eyes, I lost one of my most precious possessions: my eyesight. Tiny cold sores covered the surface of my eyes, scarring my cornea. I wasn’t allowed to stand in direct sunlight or even in a brightly lit room. The light would penetrate my eyelids and cause too much pain. At the age of seventeen, I was unprepared to find myself in a dark world. Who would I be without my ability to see?
All I wanted throughout the entire summer was to be able to see people. What new cute bathing suit styles was everyone wearing? Who had cut their hair or dyed it purple? I would have a conversation with someone and realize that I had no idea what facial expressions he was making. I no longer had the ability to make eye contact, a privilege I had taken for granted before. I longed to talk with my eyes. I just wasn’t whole without my vision.
My parents became my sole support system. Hoping for a miracle, they took me to an eye specialist every day. No one was sure if I would ever completely recover, and if so, how long the healing process would take. Meanwhile, Mom and Dad adjusted their own lives in order to keep my spirits up. They would take me to baseball games and out to dinner—anything to get me out of the house. However, going places was difficult. I had to wear eye patches and dark sunglasses to ease the pain of bright light. As a seventeen-year-old, this wasn’t exactly the fashion statement I was trying to make.
My parents had to take care of me everywhere. At restaurants they ordered my food, arranged it on the table, and then explained where everything was on my plate so I could finally eat it. My fifteen-year-old brother took this opportunity to rearrange the food on my plate. My mom was amazing. Each day she would brush my hair and lay out a decent looking outfit so I could walk out of the house with a little bit of pride. She was determined to keep my self-esteem as high as possible. I relied on my mom to make me feel pretty. At an age when I should have been gaining my independence, I found myself becoming increasingly dependent on my parents.
I wasn’t able to drive or visit my friends. Movies were completely out of the question. Life seemed to just go on without me, as if I was never there. Fortunately, I had a wonderful friend who knew how to make me feel special. Donny and I had dated a couple of times before I lost my vision, but at that time we were just friends. He would come to my house to sit and talk with me. If the TV were on, he’d watch and I’d listen. One time, Donny took me to a baseball barbecue and introduced me to all of his friends. I had never been so happy in my entire life. He didn’t care that I couldn’t see his friends. He held my hand proudly and led me around. I may not have been able to see all the people I met that day, but their voices are clear in mind. I can still separate whose laughter belonged to whom. When I close my eyes now and try to remember that day, I mostly see darkness. But I can still smell the sausage and brisket cooking on the grill. I can hear the happiness around me and Donny’s voice saying, “This is my girlfriend, Talina.”
I slowly began to make progress toward the end of the summer. Little by little, I was able to open my eyes. My vision was still blurred but this achievement called for a celebration. My parents were still concerned and Donny continued to stay by my side. Then I began to worry, Will I have to start my senior year wearing my thick glasses that everyone still refers to as Coke bottles? I didn’t want to think about it. August crept up on me, though, and I started school with limited vision and thick glasses. As I walked through the halls, I struggled to look confident. I had a harder time cheering at pep rallies and football games. My lack of clear vision and concern with my physical appearance took the fun out of everything that I used to love. My level of self-confidence had diminished to an unrecognizable point.
At a time in my life when I expected my only concern to be to have fun, I was learning a powerful lesson. I could no longer rely on appearance to make me feel better about myself. I had to go deeper. With the support of my family and friends, I realized that feeling good about who I am on the inside is far more important. Believing that I can overcome the obstacles that I face is crucial. My identity wasn’t my thick glasses. My identity was my inner strength. This inner strength allowed me to love life even when I was unable to see it. Losing my eyesight could not take away my ability to hear the voices of the people who love me. It could not steal away the fresh smell of morning or the lingering aroma of my mom’s cooking. Most important, my loss could never take from me the feel of my boyfriend’s hand around my own.
Six years later, I continue to need steroid eyedrops to keep the virus from reoccurring. The scar tissue is slowly improving. Recently, I began to wear both contacts, which is a huge accomplishment. A day doesn’t go by that I am not thankful for my progress and the lesson I learned. I am incredibly thankful for my special friend who visited
me, introduced me as his girlfriend and is now my husband.
I am currently preparing for my first year of teaching. I think about which of my personal qualities I might be able to share with my students. I know how difficult it is to grow up and I want my students to believe that I understand them. If I can’t teach them anything else, I hope I can get across the lesson that changed my teenage experience: True beauty is not about what you see on the outside but what you feel, sense and love from within.
Talina Sessler-Barker
Who Is Jack Canfield?
Jack Canfield is one of America’s leading experts in the development of human potential and personal effectiveness. He is both a dynamic, entertaining speaker and a highly sought-after trainer. Jack has a wonderful ability to inform and inspire audiences toward increased levels of self-esteem and peak performance.
In addition to the Chicken Soup for the Soul series, Jack has coauthored numerous books, including his most recent release, The Success Principles, How to Get From Where You Are to Where You Want to Be with Janet Switzer, The Aladdin Factor with Mark Victor Hansen, 100 Ways to Build Self-Concept in the Classroom with Harold C. Wells, Heart at Work with Jacqueline Miller and The Power of Focus with Les Hewitt and Mark Victor Hansen.
Jack is regularly seen on television shows such as Good Morning America, 20/20 and NBC Nightly News.
For further information about Jack’s books, tapes and training programs, or to schedule him for a presentation, please contact:
Self-Esteem Seminars
P.O. Box 30880
Santa Barbara, CA 93130
Phone: 805-563-2935
Fax: 805-563-2945
Web: www.chickensoupforthesoul.com
A Taste of Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul III Page 4
