What's Your Story? Submitted Stories
I Will Not Give Up
We found her on the floor of her living room, sprawled on her stomach next to the sofa. She was still conscious but just barely. Together, Suzanne and I lifted her up on the couch. I sat next to her and took her hand. “Karen. You are going to be all right. We’re going to take care of you. It’s going to be okay.”
I can still remember her face, looking up at me but not seeing. She wanted out, and she was almost there. She tried to speak, but there was only the sound of incoherent mumbles.
Suzanne went to find Karen’s keys, coat and shoes. I went into the kitchen and poured out the unfinished glass of wine and the rest of the five-gallon box. Suzanne found the empty bottle of sleeping pills. I found the suicide notes on the kitchen table. I folded them up to take with me. I didn’t want Karen to find them when she came home again.
She made it almost seven months without a drink this time. She had called Suzanne in her stupor to say good-bye.
We dragged her lifeless body down the stairs and into my car and headed to the emergency room. I drove and Suzanne sat with Karen in the backseat, desperately trying to keep her awake.
I was “on” that night, very efficient. I turned off my own feelings, and I tried to be strong for Karen. The next few days, though, were a blur. Karen was going to be okay, but I was still really shaken up.
I needed something. I needed to run. A winter of running on the treadmill watching ESPN wouldn’t work this time. I needed to run outside.
I laced up my shoes and bundled up against the cold. I ran through my neighborhood, the crisp cold air burned my lungs.
I thought back sixteen years ago when I discovered running and drinking. I fell in love with both. I learned to high jump and hurdle. I was part of a team. I spent long Saturdays at track meets, learning how to compete. Then there were the glory days of winning medals and trophies, chasing and breaking school records.
I spent Saturday nights in parks and in friends’ home when their parents were away, guzzling beer, discovering vodka, whiskey, tequila and grain alcohol. I laughed with a recklessness I had never felt before. The only pressures were gone. I was relaxed, I rebelled in my own quite way. I voraciously smoked cigarettes. I kissed boys.
And then I got sick, over and over. I emerged from blackouts in unfamiliar places, in smoke-filled rooms. I shut down emotionally. I stopped remembering.
I was on two separate paths. I was Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. I continued to high jump but not as high. I continued to long jump but not as far. I continued to live but not fully. At twenty-one years old, I was a zombie, the walking dead. My soul had become fragile. I didn’t want to die, but I didn’t want to live. I just didn’t want to feel.
I had a few close friends who were there throughout my struggles, and they reached out and rescued me. They got me into treatment, and I surrendered to my alcoholism.
That was almost eight years ago.
Now here I am, no longer drinking but still running. I reached the track and stopped to stretch. I hadn’t been to the track in awhile. I decided I was going to run a timed mile, just to see where I was at.
The track was covered with snow and ice in areas. I jogged to the starting line and then started my watch.
Go! Focus on the run. I established my rhythm as I came off the first turn and headed into the back straightaway. I dodged the icy patches and noted their locations for the next time around. I sailed into the second lap and continued to press forward. As I headed into the third, I was hurting. I didn’t want to stop, but I wanted to slow down.
“Going into the third lap is where you need to pick up the pace. That is where the others slow down.” I could hear the words of my high school coach. I focused on my form and pushed through the pain.
Down the straightaway I imagined I heard my dad cheering. I heard my college coaches clapping. I saw my college teammates who helped me get sober waving me on.
And then on the backstretch, another voice. My own. “I will not give up.”
My lungs were screaming. My legs felt heavy. “I will not give up.”
I thought of Karen, imagining her in the high security –detox, where they took away her belt and shoelaces, just in case.
“I will not give up.”
I thought of Karen hooked up to tubes that pumped in charcoal to absorb the poison of the alcohol and the sleeping pills.
“I will not give up.”
I headed into the last turn, picking up speed.
I thought of myself at thirteen years old, a young girl full of curiosity and wonder, full of so much potential, so much promise. And also a girl tripped up by fear and insecurity, who tried to find herself by escaping in alcohol. A troubled girl who grew up to be a woman who wanted herself back.
“I will not give up.”
As I crossed the finish line, I pressed the stop button on my watch. I looked at the time, and I smiled. Thank you Karen, for the lesson. I hope you learn it too.
Deirdre Morris © 2004 Chicken Soup for the Soul Enterprises, Inc. All Rights Reserved. Used with permission.
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