Edward’s Storm
My son Edward had been a happy baby, a quiet and shy toddler. Then, he hit puberty, and suddenly, he changed. Great bouts of anger and depression became the norm for him. At the time, I passed it off as the normal growing pains of a young man, until one day, something happened to change my mind.
I came home to find he had gathered a pile of pictures and put them on the floor. He was trembling, and there were tears streaming down his face.
I asked him gently, “Eddie, what are you doing with those pictures?”
“I want them gone.”
“But they belong to all of us, you cant just destroy them.”
“Fine” He said, “Take them, hide them away. I dont want to see that face ever again.”
“Whose face?” I asked.
“This face. this stupid, ugly ...” He ran off, went into the bathroom and slammed the door behind him.
I looked at the pictures, and became even more confused.
All the pictures were of him.
I was still considering this, when I heard shouting coming from the bathroom.
I got up, and made my way to the door, trying to hear what he was saying.
“I hate you! I hate you! You... You.... BOY!”
He said the last word like it was the worst curse he could bestow.
I heard pounding, and rushed into the bathroom, to find him hitting the mirror with every bit of force he had cracking it. Then, like a puppet whose strings had been cut, he collapsed to the floor, and wept.
I gathered him into my arms, and held him tight.
“Please. Tell me what’s wrong.” I said.
“Daddy... “ he said with a sob, “Make him go away. He’s ... wrong.”
He was pointing at his own reflection in the cracked mirror.
I had no idea what to say to that, so I just held him, rocking him, and stroking his hair, like I had when he was a baby.
He quieted, and I got him up, took him to his room, helped him undress and tucked him into bed. I looked around the room, and suddenly realized how atypical it was for a teen boy’s room. In fact, it was like it had no personality, nothing in it that said anything about the occupant at all.
I did something I hadn’t done since he was old enough to clean his own room, and that was to go through it carefully. I wasn’t really sure what I was looking for, other than some clue as to what he was so upset about.
I probably only found the diary because he counted on me not going in there at all, and so and just put in in his sock drawer.
I left the room, and went to the phone, taking the diary with me.
I phoned our family doctor, and said, “Dr. Miller, This is Richard Carter speaking. I need your help”
As I spoke, I looked at the title on the diary
“The diary of Elizabeth Rachel. “
I finished my conversation, hung up the phone, and focused on the diary. There, written in a feminine script that was both familiar, and strange, was a tale of such torment that anyone reading it would have been moved, even if it had been about a stranger. Recognizing that it was about my own child, it squeezed at my heart, until it felt like I couldn’t breathe.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” I found myself whispering in the direction of my child’s room, as tears fell down on the pages.
Finally, I couldn’t take any more, and I closed the diary, went to my own room, fell on my knees beside the bed, and prayed.
I stayed in that position for a long time, weeping, alternating between crying out to God, and being willing to wrestle with him, for the sake of my child.
But, eventually, a feeling of peace came over me, and I felt ... answered.
I got off my knees, and still clutching the diary in my hand, I went back to my child’s room. I sat on the edge of the bed, causing my child to stir slightly, but they did not wake up.
I stroked my child’s hair, and whispered in their ear, “You’re going to be okay, you just wait and see.”
I choked a bit, but I continued, feeling the need to say this out loud.
“Elisabeth Rachel Carter, my precious, precious daughter, you’re going to be okay.”