Taking the Plunge

I think I'm going to add more....but I'm not sure yet...so if you see a Taking the Plunge Part II then it will be the other half of this story.

“The sun’s gonna blow up anyway and then we’ll all be dead.” That was Sandra Morton’s excuse when I asked her why she was considering killing herself. Not that it was a big deal, anyway. More kids had committed suicide this year than any other year at SunValley Middle School. That’s what the adults call it: “committing suicide.” I guess it seems safer to them than calling it what we call it: “going to the dumps”, “diving down”, “taking the plunge”, and other crude names of that sort, some better than others.
This is what I had to look forward to when I came here at the beginning of eighth grade. It took me by surprise at first. I had grown up in a small town outside of Washington D.C., the first and only child my parents had. My mom was really strict when it came to rules. No shoes in the house, no eating food anywhere in the house unless its in the kitchen, no television until your homework’s done, and you can only watch half an hour on school days, an hour on weekends. No makeup, no boys, no piercings, do your own laundry, keep your room clean, make sure I meet and approve of your friends before you go out and play with them. I’m serious; I really had to drag my friends over to my house to have them checked by my mom. And she was picky. Absolutely no piercings. Dresses had to reach to below the knee. If they wore pants they had to be clean and ironed. No halter tops or spaghetti straps. By the time I was in fifth grade, I didn’t have many friends.
My dad was the total opposite. I still wonder how they ever fell in love, if they ever did. He grew up a natural New Yorker: rough, tough, and bad. He smoked, drinked, and when he did get into a relationship, it was only for the sex. When he met my mom, I think he actually tried to change. He cut down to a pack a day, and only drank a beer with dinner. This was the side of my dad I never met. After I was born, he went back to his old ways. In secret, of course. I think my mother would have divorced him long ago if she had known what he was doing behind her back.
He kept this up until the end of seventh grade. When my mom found out what he was doing, she tried really hard to live with it. I know how hard she tried, because every night as I sat in bed I could hear her crying and praying to God to bring her husband back. I cried too, not only because I felt bad for her, but for me too. My life had been perfect. But no matter how much I prayed or pleaded, God didn’t answer.
After my parents split up and my mom moved back to California with her mom, things just went downhill for me. I was a clean, innocent, only child stuck in a dirty, god-forsaken school. At first I was teased and beat up so much my mom considered taking me out. But I had gotten stubbornness from my dad, and I was determined not to let it get to me.
I used my own money and bought eye liner, lipstick and mascara when my mom thought I was at the library studying. Every morning I would go into the bathroom, change my clothes, put on my makeup and get to class. Then before my mom picked me up after school I would change again, take off the makeup, and go home. My mom never knew the difference.
I started to make friends. There was Jen, a rough tomboy from L.A. with a spunky attitude and a love of swear words. Maudie and Lu were total Goths; black hair, (not natural) black lipstick, eye liner, clothes, the whole deal. Then there was Sandra Morton, her rep being the toughest girl in school. She was the head of our group. We never did anything without asking her first. She is still known to have knocked Tommy Winsler’s block off in the sixth grade. I wish I had been there.
If you’d have seen me at the beginning of this school year, and seen me now, you wouldn’t have recognized me. I’m sure if my mother knew who I really was she’d have a heart attack. But she doesn’t know. And I’d like to keep it that way. Even though I may not be a perfect little angel anymore, I still love her and care about her. I would die if something happened to her. She’s the only one who’s really there for me now. I haven’t had a letter from my dad in 6 months. I know she still loves him. Though I would never admit it to my friends, I do believe in God still, even after what He did to me. He tore my life apart and still I believe. That’s what you’re supposed to do. Believe in what resources you have, because you never know when they might disappear.
That’s what happened to all those kids who died. They gave up. They thought God didn’t care about them anymore, so they destroyed the gift He had given them. I don’t want to do that. I don’t want to smoke, or drink, or end up like my dad, who’s living in a run-down apartment trying to stay alive as long as he can. If I do those things, my mom will find out, and it will hurt her. I don’t want to hurt her, so I’m going to keep her happy as long as I can. I’m no serious Christian or anything, but I do believe in God. Though I know I’m not anything like I used to be, I still believe in him, and my dad, and my mom.