The Seven Longest Yards

by Chris Norton

  The months leading up to Whittley coming to live with us were jam-packed and insane, but they were also a breath of fresh air. Emily had a new sense of purpose, energy, and direction that I hadn’t seen since she took charge of our move to Florida. For the first time in months, we even stopped fighting. When we finally got approved to become Whittley’s foster parents, Emily and I went away for one last weekend together on the beach, simply to enjoy each other’s company. We spent long hours talking through the house rules and boundaries we would set for Whittley. We felt like a team again. I remembered how much I had missed moments like these. I hoped they were here to stay.

  EMILY

  Whittley moved into our guest room one week before the start of her senior year. We got some funny looks when we enrolled her in the local high school. Not many seniors have parents in their early twenties. From the start, Whittley made all sorts of promises about how she had turned her life around. I wanted to believe her, but I was not delusional. I expected her to fall into the wrong crowd or start making poor choices again. I prepared myself for some tough love and set boundaries right off the bat. Our biggest rule, our one deal-breaker, was simple: if she wanted to live with us, she had to stay in school. If she ever dropped out, we’d send her straight back to Iowa.

  Those first few weeks, everything went shockingly smooth. Whittley wanted to make me happy, which led her to make better life choices. Somehow, I brought out the best in her.

  Before she moved in, I worried about how Chris and I would handle taking in a teenager when our relationship was under so much strain already. But with Whittley in the apartment, we barely had time to argue. I still worked at the children’s shelter, Whittley was always home after school, and Marisa and Chris’s friend A.P. were over all the time. On the surface it looked like our life—and my mental well-being—had improved drastically.

  The truth was, I was a great actress. I stuffed every dark thought and negative feeling deep inside when Whittley was around. I plastered a smile on my face when we went out with friends. I was as determined as ever to make sure no one had any idea what was going on. But putting up this front was exhausting. I felt suffocated from wearing this mask and trying to pretend that everything was okay when it definitely was not.

  Before long, cracks broke through my façade. I still hid my feelings from most of the world, but Chris and I started fighting again. We kept it behind closed doors. I didn’t want Whittley to see what was going on. Anytime Whittley was gone or asleep, I fell into my bed to rest up for my next grand performance of how fine I really was.

  Meanwhile, the honeymoon with Whittley ended quickly. The principal’s office called and called and called with one behavior problem after another. Whittley always told a completely different story than her teacher, so figuring out the truth was exhausting. I had known Whittley long enough to be onto her game. I knew that every authority figure in her life had let her slide through with a slap on the wrist unless she did something truly inexcusable, like punching someone. Chris and I decided early on to stop that cycle once and for all. We didn’t care how small the offense was, there were going to be consequences. Once I grounded her from her phone. Another time I took away her TV so she could only watch shows with Chris and me in our living room. The party was over, and Whittley was furious.

  “Are you kidding me?” she fumed. “No one has ever punished me like this just for cussing at a teacher.”

  No matter how I was feeling internally, I was always compelled to stay strong for Whittley. I was all she had, and I had to step up to the plate of parenting her. “You are not going to disrespect your teacher,” I calmly explained. “That will not be allowed here.”

  Sometimes Whittley took the drama up a notch and made a big show of hauling out a suitcase. “I’m packing my bags,” she yelled. “I know you’re going to kick me out now. My life is over.”

  “Whittley, you’re not going anywhere,” I said calmly. “You’re not getting kicked out just because you got in trouble at school today.”

  “I’ll call my caseworker,” she said, mustering up a tear or two. “I’m going back to Iowa.”

  I could see she wanted to give up simply because of one mistake, but that’s not how it worked in our family. “No,” I said. “We’re going to make it right, and then we’ll move on. You made a bad choice, but you’re not a bad person. You’re going to write an apology letter to your teacher, and then we’re going to move forward.”

  She made good on her threats to run away more than once. I knew it was a ploy for attention, and I wasn’t having it. I told her I wouldn’t chase her but would just call the cops and have them pick her up. That didn’t stop her from storming out the door in a big show. I would watch her hang around the apartment complex parking lot, glancing toward our building every so often to see if I was coming after her. I was determined to make good on my promise that I wouldn’t go after her, but obviously I’m not completely heartless. Instead, I would call Marisa, who lived in the same apartment complex as we did. She was always good at talking Whittley down and getting her to come home.

  Every once in a while, I saw signs of progress. One evening Whittley had just finished helping me clean up the apartment when I reached out and patted her shoulder. “Whittley, I really appreciate you,” I said. “Thank you so much.”

  The next day in the car, I could tell Whittley had something on her mind. Finally, she spoke up. “Emily, can I talk to you about something?”

  “Well, of course you can. You can talk to me about anything.”

  Her face was serious as she looked at me. “I felt really uncomfortable when you told me that you appreciate me.”

  I waited for her to tell me the bad part, but I finally realized she was done speaking. “Wait, what? Can you explain what you mean?”

  She looked indignant. “No one has ever told me that before, and it made me uncomfortable.”

  It hit me—Whittley had never felt appreciated. I couldn’t count the number of fights I had picked with Chris over the fact that I didn’t feel appreciated. Now here was Whittley confronting me about expressing that very feeling.

  “Okay, Whitt, this is insane. No one has ever told you they appreciate you before?” She just stared at me. “Well, they should have! Listen to me. You have value. You are so special and loved. You deserve to feel appreciated.” She listened, but I could tell she didn’t truly believe it. She had never heard that in seventeen years. In fact, she had many people in her life tell her the complete opposite and who made her feel as though she didn’t matter. This was the first time she had ever heard that someone appreciated her. Why would she believe me?

  CHRIS

  Bonding with Whittley did not come easily for me. When Emily was around, Whittley was as relaxed and happy as can be. Anytime I was alone with her, though, she clammed right up. I wondered what I did to offend her until Emily explained that it wasn’t only me. Whittley had a long history of terrible experiences with men. She wasn’t comfortable around any man.

  A few weeks after Whittley arrived, Emily had to work a Saturday, and Whittley and I were on our own for lunch. I told her we could order a pizza, but she shook her head. “I’m going to make you pancakes,” she declared. “Not from a mix either. Homemade.”

  I smiled. “Pancakes sound great, Whitt. Thank you so much.”

  I don’t claim to be a cook, but when I took one look at the plate she set on the table, I knew something was off. The pancake’s color did not look right. But I kept my mouth shut and dug in.

  I have no idea what she did to those pancakes. Maybe she mixed up the baking powder with baking soda or salt with sugar. Whatever it was, this was the most disgusting batch of pancakes I’d ever put in my mouth. Even so, I forced them down. Whittley watched me eagerly. I didn’t want to make her feel bad, so I dutifully finished off the two cakes on my plate.

  By the time I finished, Whittley was done cleaning up and sat down to eat her lunch. She took one bite and spit it into her napkin
.

  “That is disgusting!” she shrieked. “Ugh! Chris, how could you eat that? What is wrong with you?”

  We were still laughing when Emily came home from work. From that moment, Whittley began to trust me. I’d eat those pancakes again today if it meant they’d bring us closer like they did that day.

  EMILY

  Even with the bumps in the road, I was always confident that Chris and I were the best thing for Whittley, but we still felt that nothing we were saying or doing was making a huge impact on her life. I was determined to push back my struggles and dark feelings to be the best mother possible, and that included making sure she had no idea that I struggled behind closed doors.

  But it wasn’t working. My life was spiraling downward. First came the insomnia. I struggled to sleep more than two hours a night. Every night, I laid down and tried to go to sleep, but my mind raced as my anxiety ramped up to a new level. The worst part was that I wanted to sleep, desperately. I was exhausted all the time, but I couldn’t do the one thing I knew would help. I took melatonin, but it didn’t help. Nothing did. As the sleepless nights piled up, I was losing my mind.

  My lack of sleep took a toll on my emotions. That Thanksgiving we went to Sarasota to visit my brother Michael. I volunteered to make the meal. I dug up the best recipes I could find and made everything from scratch to give Whittley an amazing Thanksgiving. We spent all day in the kitchen, making turkey, ham, stuffing cooked inside the turkey the traditional way, green bean casserole, mashed potatoes and gravy, pumpkin pie, and rolls. We had a candlelight dinner. When dinner was over, though, I broke down in tears in front of Michael. It was unlike me to break my cover, but I couldn’t stop myself. Later I cried to my mom on the phone about how I couldn’t sleep.

  As if the insomnia wasn’t enough, my heart started racing. My heart rate wouldn’t dip below the nineties, even if I was resting in bed. I clocked a heart rate of 118 just standing in front of the sink doing dishes. If I went for a run, my heart rate skyrocketed into the two hundreds. Fear gripped my body, and I felt as though I couldn’t breathe.

  My family convinced me to see a doctor. Deep down I hoped something was physically wrong with me. At least then I’d have an answer. But once again, the doctor gave me a clean bill of health.

  That left me with only one conclusion: my mental struggles were now taking a physical toll on my body. I can’t ignore this forever, I thought. But I don’t know if I have it in me to fix it.

  I still thought I should be able to pick myself up by my bootstraps and help myself. After all, I’ve always been a take-charge person. I’m an independent woman. That’s what independent people do, right? The fact that I couldn’t was an obvious sign of weakness in my mind. I was so intent on helping others that I forgot I was allowed to ask for help for myself. When I look back at those days, I see a woman who desperately needed God. I needed him to give me courage and strength to get the help I needed. I needed him to fill the void in my soul that I didn’t realize existed. I had turned away from him at the exact moment my soul cried out for him.

  I was still so blind, but my eyes were about to be opened.

  16

  Finding Faith Again

  CHRIS

  By the end of the year, I had run out of ideas of how to help Emily. I tried everything—encouraging her to do the things that made her come alive, telling her to exercise, giving her motivational speeches, freeing her of caregiving responsibilities, and even moving her to Florida. Nothing worked. She even saw a doctor who looked for any medical reason for her mood changes and exhaustion, but every test came back normal. From time to time, she’d perk up long enough to make me think she was better, but the changes never lasted. Within a few days, she always came crashing back down. I’m a fixer, but I couldn’t fix this. Emily was clearly suffering from depression, and no amount of motivational speeches, exercise, or time pursuing her passion was going to snap her out of it.

  I begged Emily to seek professional help. I told her I’d help her research the right mental health specialist to visit. I’d even go to the appointment with her if she wanted me there. I offered to do couples therapy. I think on some level Emily knew she needed help. She hated feeling like a different person, and I knew that the headaches and rapid heartbeat scared her. That made it harder for me to understand why she continually refused to seek help.

  One night, weeks after we argued over her need to see someone who specialized in depression and anxiety, she casually mentioned right in the middle of lunch that she had made an appointment. I could barely contain my excitement. She’s going to get better, I thought. Our lives are going to get back to normal.

  But just one day later, in the middle of yet another fight, Emily dropped a bomb. “You know what?” she yelled, anger flashing in her eyes. “I’m canceling my appointment.” I froze. Is she serious? Her face was hard, with an expression I didn’t recognize. That look told me she didn’t care how much canceling the appointment would hurt herself, as long as it hurt me too.

  “Emily.” I hoped she couldn’t tell I had tears in my eyes. “Please. Don’t do this.”

  “I’m doing it,” she said defiantly. “I’m not going.”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I had held out so much hope for this appointment. Since I worked at home, our apartment was a daily battle zone until Whittley came home from school, and I felt helpless to fix it. Every morning one of my first thoughts was, Will we make it through today without a fight? I braced myself for a confrontation every time I returned home from my workouts. The time I spent away from our apartment felt like a breath of fresh air.

  Don’t get me wrong. I was not an innocent victim. Emily’s struggles often brought out the worst in me. When she blew up at me, I would blow up right back at her. She often called me out, saying, “When was the last time you went out of your way to do something thoughtful or romantic? Like taking me out on a date, writing a note, getting me flowers?” She was right. Although we spent a lot of time together, I rarely went out of my way to show her how special and meaningful she was to me. I felt as if I were failing her. But with all our fighting, it was hard to get motivated to do something like that, although I knew she needed it more than ever.

  We also often fought about her feeling as though I did not acknowledge her or notice her efforts to make our house a home. I’d come home, and she’d ask, “Do you notice anything different?” I would look around trying to figure out what was new, but I never noticed, not even when the changes should have been obvious, like new lamps or pictures on the wall.

  Emily also felt I did not appreciate her or actively listen to her without getting sidetracked by reading a sports article or scrolling through Twitter. I was at my worst after a workout. I’d get home exhausted and only want to do something mind-numbing, like scroll through social media. Emily would start a conversation, and I would listen at first, then slowly get sucked into looking at my phone. “Are you even listening to me? Then what did I just say?” And I could never remember. She’d say, “You care more about sports than listening to me.” She was right. My ignoring her was rude. But to her, that meant I didn’t love her, which was very frustrating for me. I loved her more than anything; I just didn’t show it consistently enough.

  I made so many mistakes, and I wish I could have handled the tense moments better. While it’s certainly not an excuse, I was exhausted. I didn’t always have it in me to handle another argument calmly and gracefully. After more than a year of a few highs mixed with extreme lows, something had to give.

  EMILY

  By the end of the year, I had hit the lowest point of my life. I couldn’t sleep. My heart raced all the time. And I lived in a fog that I feared might never lift. Every instinct in me told me to run away from feeling vulnerable. That fear of vulnerability kept me from seeking help. I made multiple doctors’ appointments, some that Chris didn’t even know about—but I always ended up canceling. I knew that if I sat down with a mental health specialist, all the pain
and emotion and weakness I had locked up for so long would come pouring out, and I couldn’t let that happen. I thought if I got help for this when nothing bad had happened to me, that would mean I was weak and not strong enough to handle things on my own. Just the thought of that made me sick to my stomach. I also believed that if I let the pain and emotions out of the box, I could never put them back in. I would be forced to feel all the emptiness and sorrow that I had refused to let myself fully experience since my grandma’s death. I could not let myself do that.

  Getting help would also force me to give up my current coping mechanism—anger. Chris always got the worst of my outbursts. I’d get mad because he didn’t love me or appreciate me enough or never went out of his way to show he cared about me or didn’t clean up after himself or when he paid more attention to his phone than me. Basically, I was mad all the time, but in my mind, my anger was completely justified.

  Once, in the middle of a fight, Chris looked at me and asked, “Do you realize how your anger is affecting me?”

  I shrugged and raised my eyebrows. “I don’t care. Do you understand how I feel when I’m not angry? If you really knew, you’d be happy I’m mad and not something else.”

  With time my anger grew into something more dangerous. I claimed I loved Chris, but he had now become the scapegoat for all my problems. This gaping, gnawing hole I felt inside had to be his fault. If he were just more romantic or more appreciative or more helpful around the house or just more something, anything, I’d feel right again. Not once did it occur to me that Chris was never meant to fill that void. Only God could do that. But I wasn’t ready to admit that my relationship with God was as messed up as my relationship with my fiancé. Instead, I found it easier to keep blaming Chris.

  Everything came to a head one night when Chris went over to watch a basketball game with his friend A.P. rather than hanging out with Whittley and me. The longer he was gone, the angrier I became that he’d rather watch a stupid game than be with me. I tried to go to bed, but I can’t sleep when he isn’t home. My anxiety kicked in, and worry nearly drowned me.