Read Online Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul on Tough Stuff by Jack Canfield - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jack Canfield
Ads: Link
had nowhere to turn. He told me I just needed to search my soul, and I would find it. At that moment, I looked at him and wished so much that I could play the guitar like him or draw like him. He seemed to possess so many talents that I envied, and to hear him say that he saw creativity inside of me made me want to hug him. I didnât, though.
I remember him always being holed up in his room whenever he was home, which wasnât very often. He preferred going out partying with his friends. He was messing around with different kinds of drugs, which made him moody and difficult to tolerate. When he was around the house, there was a constant tension because he didnât want any of us telling him what to do; he didnât want to hear a thing we had to say. I guess thatâs why I was so surprised when he took me with him that day in the car and spoke to me with such sincerity.
My eyes begin to well up with tears as I remember the time, not too long ago, when his dog of ten years got cancer and had to be put to sleep. He slept in the garage with her for the last week of her life, and we were all together when she died. The look of loss in his eyes and the river of tears that flooded his cheeks told more about his love for his dog than any words he could have spoken. As he bent over and held her limp, lifeless body in his arms, his own body began to shake, and I realized how attached to her he was. As he stood up, I put my arms around him, hoping he would realize I was there for him, but he was distant and in his own world.
Later that day, he came walking through the garage door with sunglasses on, even though it was a rainy day, so that we couldnât see his red, puffy eyes. He always wore choker necklaces, but he had another necklace on that hadnât been there earlier. He pulled the necklace out from under his shirt and showed us that he was wearing his dog, Annieâs, name tag.
I cry even more as I begin thinking about why we havenât spoken for three months. I had to set boundaries. I vividly recall the night when I awoke to hear him calling someone a bitch and a whore. I stood in the hallway and heard my brother calling his girlfriend names, thrashing all around the kitchen like a mad rabbit. He was incredibly drunk. The hurtful words that spewed out of his mouth were ones I would only expect a deranged lunatic to say. They were not words that should be spoken to a loved one.
The next day I decided we needed to discuss the previous night. He stood in the family room with a vacant, yet defiant, look in his eyes as I began pouring open my soul about how much I worried about his alcohol consumption. It seemed the more I said, the further away he went. Finally, he looked at me, told me I was overreacting and that he was perfectly fine. I stood and listened to him deny my concerns, knowing that his denial was just a way to convince himself there was no problem. I gathered all the courage I had and proceeded to tell him that until he quit drinking and got help, there could be no brother-sister relationship between us. The look he gave me said more than words could ever express. I knew he thought I was overreacting and that I wouldnât follow throughâ after all, I never had before.
He moved out two weeks later when my parents and I gave him the ultimatum of living at home sober or moving out. He chose the latter of the two. He was furious with us for making him choose. He has stayed away for three months now.
The light turns green, and I begin to cross the intersection while looking into the windows of the white Subaru. The man driving the car is built just like Zach. I realize how much I want to see him and wonder if I made the right decision. Then I think to myself what my dad told me the day Zach left: âTiani, he may not realize it now, but he will thank you one day for loving him so much, that you put your foot down to him and let him know how things were going to be. Your mom and I
I remember him always being holed up in his room whenever he was home, which wasnât very often. He preferred going out partying with his friends. He was messing around with different kinds of drugs, which made him moody and difficult to tolerate. When he was around the house, there was a constant tension because he didnât want any of us telling him what to do; he didnât want to hear a thing we had to say. I guess thatâs why I was so surprised when he took me with him that day in the car and spoke to me with such sincerity.
My eyes begin to well up with tears as I remember the time, not too long ago, when his dog of ten years got cancer and had to be put to sleep. He slept in the garage with her for the last week of her life, and we were all together when she died. The look of loss in his eyes and the river of tears that flooded his cheeks told more about his love for his dog than any words he could have spoken. As he bent over and held her limp, lifeless body in his arms, his own body began to shake, and I realized how attached to her he was. As he stood up, I put my arms around him, hoping he would realize I was there for him, but he was distant and in his own world.
Later that day, he came walking through the garage door with sunglasses on, even though it was a rainy day, so that we couldnât see his red, puffy eyes. He always wore choker necklaces, but he had another necklace on that hadnât been there earlier. He pulled the necklace out from under his shirt and showed us that he was wearing his dog, Annieâs, name tag.
I cry even more as I begin thinking about why we havenât spoken for three months. I had to set boundaries. I vividly recall the night when I awoke to hear him calling someone a bitch and a whore. I stood in the hallway and heard my brother calling his girlfriend names, thrashing all around the kitchen like a mad rabbit. He was incredibly drunk. The hurtful words that spewed out of his mouth were ones I would only expect a deranged lunatic to say. They were not words that should be spoken to a loved one.
The next day I decided we needed to discuss the previous night. He stood in the family room with a vacant, yet defiant, look in his eyes as I began pouring open my soul about how much I worried about his alcohol consumption. It seemed the more I said, the further away he went. Finally, he looked at me, told me I was overreacting and that he was perfectly fine. I stood and listened to him deny my concerns, knowing that his denial was just a way to convince himself there was no problem. I gathered all the courage I had and proceeded to tell him that until he quit drinking and got help, there could be no brother-sister relationship between us. The look he gave me said more than words could ever express. I knew he thought I was overreacting and that I wouldnât follow throughâ after all, I never had before.
He moved out two weeks later when my parents and I gave him the ultimatum of living at home sober or moving out. He chose the latter of the two. He was furious with us for making him choose. He has stayed away for three months now.
The light turns green, and I begin to cross the intersection while looking into the windows of the white Subaru. The man driving the car is built just like Zach. I realize how much I want to see him and wonder if I made the right decision. Then I think to myself what my dad told me the day Zach left: âTiani, he may not realize it now, but he will thank you one day for loving him so much, that you put your foot down to him and let him know how things were going to be. Your mom and I
Similar Books
