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PAST ISSUES

Searching for a voice

by Amy Marie Santana
Exchange Staff 

     "Hi, my name is Amy Santana, I'm from Boston, and I'm a Senior Mass Comm. Major." One by one, we all introduce ourselves: our names, where we're from, our class standing, and our majors. We have just finished another performance, sharing skits on the topics of safe sex, suicide, cutting, drinking and driving, bullying, and much more. We attend middle schools and high schools to not only perform these skits, but to also use our past to help a future generation. After the skits are done, during the question and answer period, we share our stories. We strip to our most vulnerable in order to give these teens the courage to see themselves and to seek help.

     As I listen to personal stories on why people joined the group and why they have committed to doing what we do, I feel a part of something that is deeply touching. A best friend commits suicide while still on the phone. A cutter reveals why she first started and how she finally stopped. Two members share their experiences of each growing up with an alcoholic mother. I think about my own struggle, my own experience. And I can't help but cry silently inside. I want to share my story, to show that you can come from the place where I have been, and still come out strong. But I don't. I don't have the courage. I stay silent.

     In every face in front of me, I see myself. In every heart, I see the sadness, the loneliness, the pleading for attention, the desire to be loved.

     I wonder if they know that things will turn out okay. I wonder if it's so late that maybe "okay" hasn't come soon enough.

     Because some of them have been through so much.

*******

     At two years old, I hold on to my father's leg as tightly as I can, his walk almost dragging me across the floor. My heart is heavy and everything is blurry from the sadness that  he is leaving me. Another day of work for him. For me, another day to fear that he will not return. I cry and cry. Nothing will soothe me. My grandmother assures me he will be back. Running to the window every few minutes, with a false hope that he will be there, I feel abandoned.

     A full nine-to-five later I hear his key, and I rush to the door and hug my father. I don't let him out of my sight until bedtime. I am Daddy's little girl.

     Then, at the age of four, my parents divorced. My father moved to Miami when I was seven, but he still kept in touch. Phone calls lasting over an hour are the foundation of our relationship. I tell him about everything, and he is never too busy to listen.

*******

     Standing in my room, holding my weight against the door, I am praying that I'm strong enough to keep him out. My six year old sister, two years younger than I, is in there with me, crying. She is trembling from the fear that he, my common law step-father, will make his way past me and into the room.

     I wish my real father was here. I wonder if he knows what we go through without him.

     My heart is pounding and my eyes are swollen. My throat is scratchy but I continue to scream for my mother. She never comes. Eventually, he gets into the room, and the belt hurriedly detaches. We know what's coming next. We're both hit several times. My sister, for something as small as leaving a plate in the living room. Me for keeping him out for so long. Afterwards, we sit for hours crying, hugging each other tightly under our covers, petrified that he will return. Tomorrow, he does.

*******

     In Dominican Republic, where my family and I immigrated from, the phone rings and my grandmother picks it up. It's my mother calling from Boston. Hurried, my grandmother puts down the phone to get a pen.

     I pick up where she left off.

     "What's going on," I ask my mother. "Tell me."

     All she replies is "nothing."

     Finally, she tells me to sit down. "Are you sitting down," she asks.

     "Yes," I lie.

     "Tio Papito called last night. Your father died."

     I immediately lose all feeling. My heart drops, followed by the phone. I fall into a chair that happens to be right under me, my body shaking.

     In that moment, I look across the room and through the window I can see my little sister, so far oblivious to the news that I have just received. My soul is aching from knowing that in just a few moments she would join me in my sadness.

     Because he died in a hospital in Miami, we wait for his body to be shipped to his hometown in Dominican Republic to be buried. A week later, he is there and I am to attend my first wake.

     I hesitantly walk into an empty room, seeing my uncle sitting solemnly in the corner. A big dark purple coffin stands in the center of the room, held up horizontally. There are two tall white candles, both lit, on each side of the coffin. Seeing this image in my mind still brings the feeling of emptiness. I never got to say goodbye.

     My uncle asks my sister and me if we want to see our father one last time. Uneasy, but wanting one last look at my father, I hesitantly say "okay."

     What I see next is an image that will stay with me forever.

     He is laying in a tuxedo with his hands at his sides, his body a dark greenish-brown.

     Cause of death: A heart attack.

     I haven't seen him since a year ago, right before he had open heart surgery. I was thirteen.

     After a few moments I can hear my aunt telling me to say something, anything, as she cries as well. But I can't find the words. Slowly, tears stream down my face as I try to remember how to breathe.

*******

     My sister is all I have left to count on. She is my sister and my best friend. The Department of Social Services suspects child abuse. No one will cooperate. My sister is labeled unstable and unable to remain a part of the family. She is taken away and sent into residential treatment, an alternative to foster care. When the family goes to visit, I cannot because I am under age.

*******  

     I walk into the kitchen; I have just come in from school. Sixteen years old, it is 10:00 p.m. Straight to my room I go and then back to the kitchen to begin my chores. The dishes are piled up, waiting for me to cater to them. The food is still on the stove, wanting me to empty it neatly into dishes to be eaten the next day. Standing at the tall sink, I recall my sadness, my loneliness. I hate school. I hate life. My body feels weak from living. I've been at school since 7:30 a.m., after school I stay for rehearsal. Exhausted from my day, everyday, I am to wash the dishes, clean the counters, sweep the floor, mop the floor, put away the food, and clean the stove. Then, I do my homework. It is now 12:00 midnight.

*******

     My sister is depressed. When I look into her eyes I see her pain, but her actions show otherwise. I tell her that I love her and that I am always there for her. I feel as though I am speaking to a wall. She is no longer the person who loves me unconditionally. I have no one.

*******

     I am diagnosed with depression but I refuse to take medication. I'm not depressed, I say, I'm just sad. How can you expect me to act like nothing has happened?

     My sophomore year in college, I begin to sit by myself in my room instead of going to club meetings like I had been my freshman year. My best friends are Ben and Jerry. Fossil Fuel, Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough, Chocolate Fudge Brownie, Dublin Mudslide: who wants to drown my sorrows this time? I'm so tired of crying, a permanent lump in my throat. Everyday is a struggle to mask the sadness. To appear normal. To be polite. I begin to spend more and more time with my best friends, tired of crying, so I eat instead. I gain 30 pounds.

     I walk down to the lake and get closer than any person who cannot swim ever would. I look out into the calmness of the night, the strength of the water that runs through the lake. I envy that strength.

     In the blink of an eye I am in my room. The only thing I can find are a pair of scissors. I begin to cut off some of my hair. First, a little from the ends. Finally, almost half is gone. I brush the scissors' blade against my arm.

     I wonder. Can I do it? Can I end my life?  Can I at least tear away from some of this pain?

     Breathing is difficult when you have such a difficult decision to make.

     I share my pain with my supervisor and mentor, Marabeth, whom is the Assistant Director for Community Service. She suggests I join a group on campus called Reality Check. I decide I will come back early my junior year to try it out. No promises are made.

     The group of members welcome me with no reservations. We play theater games, and at the end of every session is a sharing of personal information. I wonder, why are they so trusting of each other?

     I drown in my acting, as I did in high school. It is a sort of therapy. I allow myself to feel extreme emotions in order to bring truth to the material, and through issues that I've been through, I feel safe enough to express myself.

*******

     We go around in a circle reading lines from a skit on suicide. When it comes to be my turn I can't speak. The words are on the page:

     I miss you so much and I don't know if I'll be able to handle it.

     I can't say them. Instead, I cry and I run away. From everyone. It is now that I realize I still have not mourned my father's death.

     A few of the girls, ones who just met me at the beginning of that same day, offer me a shoulder to cry on. Even the guys in the group seem concerned.

     Wow. All this for me?

     It is little moments like these, happening over the span of the next two years in Reality Check that make me see that there are people who really care. For so long I have thought I was alone. I realize what they are: a group of people who were once lost, getting together to help others. Through this, they have found themselves.

     Having a group that I can always count on was what brought me out of my room and into the world. Through their stories and their experiences, I am able to see myself and to see that there is hope for me. I want to help others in this same way.

*******

     "Hi, my name is Amy Santana, I'm from Boston, and I'm a Senior Mass Comm. Major." One by one, we all introduce ourselves: our names, where we're from, our class standing, and our majors. We have just finished another performance. After the skits are done, during the question and answer period, once again we share our stories. A best friend commits suicide while still on the phone. A cutter reveals why she first started and how she finally stopped. Two members share their experiences of each growing up with an alcoholic mother. I think about my own struggle, my own experience. And I finally have the courage to tell my story.

Read Amy's experience in writing this story and sharing it with those around her.