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.”