Nicole
Tucker
Bonnie
Moore
English
2010
28
January 2014
Secret Battle
They say the eyes are the window to
the soul. Who ‘they’ are, I’m not
entirely sure. But whoever they are, I
must say I agree with them because a single glance at a soul through one pair
of eyes can flip the entire world upside down.
Well, at least for me it did.
It was a cold evening in November;
the kind of cold that late autumn holds over your head and threatens much
worse—winter was soon on its way. It had
been an ordinary afternoon for me, a pleasant one actually. I’d spent it reflecting on my life as a
senior at Pleasant Grove High School. I
was at a high point on the roller coaster we call life; consciously realizing
how grateful I was to be enjoying the clubs and extra-curricular activities I
was involved with and the amazing people that surrounded me. My days passed with ignorant bliss. I saw a bright future ahead of me, writing
all of my adolescent highlights and successes into college applications. I felt hopeful and positive about what I had
in store. The sun shined brightly in my
eyes, filling every day with smiles and laughter—it was all that I noticed.
While driving home, thoughts of
content filled my head; so did the melody of my current favorite song (probably
Taylor Swift or Justin Bieber Christmas or something like that.) My fingers
tapped to the beat on my 2008 white Hyundai Elantra steering wheel. My favorite part about my car—the only
concern I had when it came to vehicle preference actually—was the fact that I
could plug my iPod into the sound system and browse my whole music library
without breaking a sweat. Driving and
jammin’ was one of my ultimate favorite pastimes. I pulled into the garage of my house and
pushed the shifter into to park. I
smiled from my good day before walking into the most confusing scene happening
in my kitchen.
My mom stood with her arms crossed
and head tilted down in the way it is when she’s upset, my dad’s demanding
voice filled the tense air, my littlest sister’s eyes were red from crying and
her fingers were in her mouth—she bites her nails when she gets worried, and a
lady, whose identity was unknown to me, stood her footing in an intense
conversation with my parents. She was
saying bizarre things and my dad was responding with fierceness. Amidst all the commotion, I stood there
puzzled and I could not put all the pieces together.
“Where is she now?” my dad
questioned. I began to process what
exactly was going on. Since my middle
sister was the only one missing from the scene I figured he was referring to
her. I don’t even remember the lady’s
response but there was concern and warning in her voice. I mentally left the conversation trying to
make sense of it all. They conversed
some more and it only triggered more bewilderment. Begging questions swarmed my mind. They were left to be unanswered because
before much more was said, the conversation was over and my parents were on
their way out the door.
The only information I got were
three words from my mom, uttered behind my ear as she left.
“She’s a cutter.”
The words sent shock straight
through my bones, down to my toes and back before they finally smacked my brain
with a harsh realization of what they meant.
It almost didn’t seem real. How
could that be true about my
sister? I lived in the room next to her
and I had no idea. My littlest sister and
I were left alone, waiting in our kitchen to see what would happen next. She trembled.
Being only twelve years old, she didn’t understand most of the spoken words
of the previous scene, but she could feel of their urgency. I knew I had to be strong; I had to put on a
brave face for her. Though it felt like
a mask only hiding the fear. Because if
I didn’t, who would? Not knowing what was
going to happen next; not knowing what tomorrow might be like for my family
After anxiety had almost eaten me away, the
garage door burst open. My parents
walked in and my missing sister followed, her head hanging, her long unkempt
hair chocking the majority of her face. When
I first saw her, my mind flashed back to everything the word sister meant for
us. We were exactly two years, two
weeks, and one day apart in age.
Sometimes we fought over which weekend to have whose birthday party
on. To be honest, most of the time we
fought about a lot of things. Who could
sit in the passenger seat of the car, who could use the straightener, and the
classic “get out of the bathroom, you’re taking too long!” We clashed because of our stark
differences. Our genetic make-up lies on
different ends of the personality spectrum.
I’m organized and strong willed.
She’s easy going and a people pleaser.
On the color personality test I’m a red, she’s a blue. Every opinion I had, she believed the exact
opposite. So for a majority of the time,
we disagreed at great lengths.
I ran and embraced her.
“I love you. Don’t ever forget that.”
She didn’t hug back. She didn’t even look at me. I pressed her chin up so our faces were
parallel. That was the moment I saw her
eyes. They were clouded over and
dark—the deepest abysses of sorrow and grief I had ever peered into. She used to be the girl of quirky sayings and
inside jokes. She used to be the piano
keys condensing under warm fingers, creating a beautiful melody. She used to be the sister who always brought
us laughter so strong, we couldn’t help but cry. Now, all of that was left behind, dumped off
at some unknown location and replaced with nothing but cold, emptiness, and a
lot of black. She wore nothing but black—even
her fingernails were coated with the dark color. Her eyes reflected the state of her soul:
shattered, hopeless. They moved blankly,
swollen with tears that streaked her sunken cheeks. They saw me but they didn’t look at me.
“Look me in the eyes.” I repeated
myself, “I love you. Don’t ever forget
that.”
My family spent the next two hours
sitting around our mahogany kitchen table discussing the issues that would be
present for the next couple months.
“I can’t comprehend it.” I resounded in a conversation with my mother a
week later, “how can someone be so unmotivated and negative about
everything? I mean why sit there and
feel sorry for yourself? Why not do
something about it and at least try to help yourself a little bit?”
My mom answered, “Well, depression
is an interesting state of mind. Someone
affected by it can’t really even begin to think that way.”
“Yeah, but even if you don’t feel
okay now can’t you least find some relief in knowing that there’s hope for the
future?” I said. It was mind-boggling—a low state of
melancholia had never occurred to me.
I’d always been so driven in achieving my dreams and so dead-set on what
I wanted in life—especially at the pivotal moment of graduation fast
approaching. My hopeful thoughts made so
much sense to me and I couldn’t see how anyone could think otherwise.
“It’s hard to see it that way when
just getting out of bed in the morning is a great accomplishment,” my mom’s
outside wisdom replied.
I continued to ponder on the subject
matter and it affected me greatly. It’s
possible that my sister was good at hiding her depression, but maybe I just
didn’t pay attention to the signs. We
lived in neighboring bedrooms; we shared the same bathroom. But her silent suffering never occurred to me
because I lived in my own busy, blissful world.
This view changed the night we found out about her. My outlook on other people was altered and I came
to an understanding of the reality outside of myself. Every person has a life just like mine:
worries, trials, hopes, and dreams. It’s
interesting to stand in a crowded place and see people as stories that have
created their life. What brought them to
this point? Where are they going from
here? I never really knew what was going
on in the mind of my sister when I brushed passed her on my way to brush my
teeth in the morning. I what I say or do
can have a greater impact that I could ever possibly know. Just like the ancient philosopher Plato,
said: “Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.” While acknowledging my sister’s secret
battle, I realized how fragile people are.
It brought me out of my own world and lead me to be more sensitive to my
surroundings. It caused me to apprehend
the value of treating others with genuine sympathy and having a compassionate
heart to everyone I come across—loved ones and strangers a like. I stepped outside of myself, into a place
where other people’s lives matter just as much as mine does and that’s a place
I’ll never be able to leave.
