There were so many reasons for my anger. I was angry that life wasn’t as easy as I wanted it to be; I was angry that my family didn’t understand; and I was angry that I didn’t fit into their perfect mold. Still, they loved me. When I was grounded and couldn’t see my friends or have a social life, they remembered what it was like to be a teenager. They’d get me out of the house, maybe take me out to dinner. On the New Year’s Eve after I’d had my heart broken, my mom brought me downstairs to hang out with all their friends. I still remember sitting with her in the dining room, her stroking my hair and laughing with her friends. She wanted me to know I wasn’t alone. She wanted me to know that she still wanted me near. My parents always made me feel loved, even in the midst of punishment. I never doubted their love, but I desperately wanted them to understand why I needed my freedom.
The only thing I knew was to fight back against what felt so unfair. My mom and I had screaming matches where we both left crying and my dad had to pick up the pieces when he got home from a long day at work. When my parents went out of town, I had huge parties. My little brother would be locked upstairs, scared to come down. My oldest brother came home once to find all my friends drinking beer around the pool while I was at work.
Everyone in my family suffered. My brothers would try to talk to me, but I was as hardheaded as I was driven. I tried to make them understand that I wasn’t hurting myself, but they weren’t blind. I was the one who was blinded by my own need and blinded by what I thought I needed.
My friends all loved my family; my mom was even asked to coach our recreation league soccer team, the Hellions. We took smoke breaks in the middle of practice and showed up to all the games hungover. Mom loved us, though. She shook her head from the sidelines when one of my teammates got a red card for screaming and running full force at a player on the other team. My dad was equally loved; my friends would come over whenever they needed a good laugh, and most of them called him by his first name. All my friends were jealous of what looked like our normal, loving family, because a lot of them didn’t have that. Most of my friends’ parents were either divorced or didn’t like each other. A few friends had parents who were alcoholics. They all told me how lucky I was, but I couldn’t see it. I was convinced that my parents were the problem.
Honestly, I was just a brat sometimes. One year for spring break my dad went above and beyond and rented this amazing house with a pool, on a golf course, and he even let us take the rental car to get lunch and stuff. Somehow, on vacation on a tropical island, I found a way to whine and complain. Finally two of my best friends got on me; they could see how lucky I was, but somehow I couldn’t. I ended up yelling at them about how they didn’t understand what it was like living in a family so unlike me. This was partially true. I was living a very different life from my family, but I’d decided to change who I was. My family didn’t make that decision. I expected them to change because I had, and when they didn’t, I pitched a fit. When they wouldn’t mold to my new beliefs, I became angry.
Because my mom was chronically ill, she had to rely on me a lot to do the things she couldn’t. One afternoon she was in bed with a migraine and asked if I could pick up my little brother from church. I told her I would, even though I was drunk, but then I forgot and came home wasted with my best friend. She had to get out of bed with a severe migraine and a fever and go get my little brother. I was that selfish; it was always about my agenda and what I wanted.
There was one person I allowed in my tiny world: my sister-in-law. She met me at the height of my rebellion, and even though my brother Kristian warned her that I tended to say whatever I wanted, he didn’t quite prepare her. We were all decorating the Christmas tree and drinking hot chocolate in a kind of picturesque moment, when my mom asked Kerri if she wanted to spend the night (which meant I would be sharing my room with her). I quickly responded without even thinking, “But Mom, we don’t even know her!” This was the beginning of Kerri’s and my relationship. She laughed it off and did stay the night.
My birthday was a month later, and even though I was so rude to her that night at my house, Kerri sent me a present, and I instantly liked her. From then on, she became my confidant, someone I could really talk to about life. Whenever I was going through something and needed someone to talk to, she was there. She was my go-to person, and there were so many times I called her crying. She probably got more than she bargained for when she married my brother, but she was a sister for better and worse. She slipped in Christian advice the best she could, but mostly she just listened to and loved me. She knew there weren’t words powerful enough to pull me out of my pit, but she could listen. She could talk through things with me like no one else could. We’d meet at Starbucks, and I’d tell her about the latest mistakes I wanted to make. She’d listen, never interrupting, and then try to help me see the light. I often disregarded her advice, but it still stuck in the back of my head.
The journal that I filled with my stories was a birthday present from her and Kristian. I’m sure she often felt like her investment in my life was in vain, but she found out later how much it really meant to me:
I think she was angel sent. I had another bad day where death seemed like the only option and where life hurt so bad I could barely move. I was considering my situation when a quiet voice came from my door. She’s not here a lot since her home is with my brother, and on a day like today she was just what I needed, a smiling face, and an understanding ear. One that didn’t judge and only cared. It’s been a while since someone has genuinely cared, but for her it’s all in a day’s work. She puts others first, and when your life seems to be in pieces, she helps you sort it out. Although she isn’t blood related, I don’t need a piece of paper to tell me she is my sister through and through. Tonight seemed like the end, but I know we have many late-night talks to come.
When I finally accepted Christ (more on that later), she was there, and we embraced, crying as sisters in Christ, finally united by something stronger than blood: eternity. All her work that seemed to fall on deaf ears for years was worth something. She never gave up on me. Thank the Lord, none of my family did.
My family did what only Christ can empower us to do: they loved me unconditionally. I never deserved my parents’ love. In fact, I spat at their offer, but they still loved me. Don’t get me wrong—they’re human and they broke down every so often, but they always loved me, even when they didn’t feel like it. What was even greater was they forgave me when I asked.
Then There Were My Friends. . . .
See, friendship is the booze they feed you. They want you to get drunk on feeling like you belong.
—ALMOST FAMOUS
When I was fifteen, I desperately wanted friendships with the “cool” girls. They all seemed so confident, and I wasn’t. They were comfortable around guys, and I wasn’t. They were offering so much, but I had so little to give back. Somehow I wiggled my way into the group, but it always felt like something I could lose in an instant. I had to be careful that I looked the part, acted the part, and embraced the part. It was exhausting. I was always worried someone was going to realize I was a fake. Mostly, I was worried that I’d screw something up and be kicked out of the crowd. I’d seen people come and go, and I was determined to stay where I was.
Because I was so scared of losing my spot on the social totem pole, I tried things a lot of other girls wouldn’t just to impress them. I tried to say the right things so that girls didn’t think I cared what they thought of me. I based all my decisions on being a part of this group. It didn’t really matter in the long run, though; ten years later I’m only close with a select few—and not for any of the reasons we originally became friends.
By senior year I established a close-knit group in our popular group of twenty plus. There were four of us called the “Fun Four.” We were known for our heavy drinking and ability to liven up any party. We did everything together. We rode to school together, had a spot in the hall where we met, and all worked at the same da
y care. We picked up the same habits and quit them at the same time. If one of us was in trouble, we helped her, and we always seemed to be in trouble. We were there for each other in the good times and in the bad, but we still had to be loyal to the rest of our big group. There was silent competition between everyone in the group, and I never knew who I could trust. The Fun Four formed because we weren’t typical girls in many ways: we weren’t prissy and didn’t talk about our emotions a lot—and we were reckless. We bonded because of that. It was our place of solace in our dark world. To handle heartache, we drank; to handle loneliness, we called each other; and to handle life, we went to another party. We always knew we had each other. If only we could have saved each other.
By senior year, we developed a routine. We’d get high before school, go to almost all our classes, go to the gym, then have a cigarette on our way to work (we were clearly concerned about our health). Everywhere we went, we listened to depressing country music. We loved “depressing country,” coining the phrase because we were always listening to songs about breaking up, leaving, or being cheated on. We would plug my iPod into the car and blare “Goodbye Time” while we talked about our latest heartache.
There was always enough heartache to go around; we were always screwing up relationships or fighting with our boyfriends or falling in love with someone new. That seemed to be the trend around the high school halls—so much heartbreak we didn’t know where to take it, so we listened to how other people handled it. We just wanted to know we weren’t alone in our feelings; we wanted to know that other people were hurting, and country music has great sound tracks for a broken heart. Sadly, that wasn’t the worst, though. The older I became, the closer real tragedy seemed to get.
CHAPTER 7
DANCING WITH DEATH
SENIOR YEAR, SPRING break. A milestone for any high school kid, and all my friends were going on an all-inclusive trip to Mexico (the kind every parent dreads). However, my dad told me if I didn’t go on the trip, he would take me and two of my best friends anywhere we wanted. We picked Aruba, partly because there was no drinking age and partly because we wanted to see the clear water and sandy shores. The three of us had a knack for getting into trouble, and when we first arrived, we ditched my parents and found a liquor store and bought the nastiest coconut rum I’d ever had. It tasted like Banana Boat and piña coladas all mixed into one, but it did the trick. While my parents and the rest of the family went golfing, we sat around the pool at the house my dad had rented and drank rum until we laughed at anything.
After a great dinner out, we decided to steal the rental car and go to one of the local clubs. We had no concept of danger, and at two o’clock in the morning, with everyone fast asleep, we drove the tiny Toyota Corolla to Carlos’n Charlie’s. We’d heard it was the best club, and we were eager to enjoy the liberal drinking laws of Aruba. Right away, we made friends with all the bartenders and started dancing.
Around three, the bar was starting to close and I was lonely. My two friends were dancing with a small Mexican man, but being five foot ten, I was left standing in the corner. I heard a voice behind me ask if he could buy me a drink. When I turned around, I noticed right away that this man was different from the other guys in the bar. He wasn’t from Aruba, and he definitely wasn’t American. He was tall and kind of cute, and I was on the mend from a broken heart, so I figured, why not? We danced and ended up kissing. When I started to leave with my friends, he followed me out. He kept asking me if I wanted to leave with him, and I knew that wasn’t happening. A kiss was fine, but leaving with a stranger was something not even I was dumb enough to do. He told me he’d find me tomorrow, and before he left I caught his name: Joran van der Sloot.
We went home thinking nothing of our newfound friend, and the next day he found us on the beach again. Once I sobered up, something inside me told me he wasn’t to be trusted. When he asked me if I would go out with him alone, I refused. Thank the Lord I did. He got my number and called and e-mailed me a few times, but I never responded. My friends asked me why I blew him off, and I told them something about him gave me the creeps.
A few months later my best friend called, screaming at me to turn on the news. I did, and there was the Aruba guy suspected in the disappearance of Natalee Holloway. I gulped. Suddenly life became a little clearer than it had been five minutes earlier. This is not a game, I thought. But that wasn’t a thought I wanted to hear, so I tried to put the memory behind me. I wasn’t proud of my lapse in judgment or how careless I’d been with my safety—just the opposite. I’d survived and I didn’t know why.
The question that follows this story is always the same: Did I contact the police? The answer is no. Natalee’s case had become so big I didn’t think anything I could say would make a difference. It didn’t occur to me that connections might matter, and I honestly didn’t think I had any information that could have been useful. If I’d thought I had anything useful, I would have contacted them immediately. But as I watched the story unfold, I was ashamed. I was ashamed that I’d made out with him. Most of all, I was ashamed I’d lived to tell about it while Natalee’s parents wondered what happened to her.
I don’t know exactly why I didn’t leave Carlos’n Charlie’s with Joran van der Sloot when he asked me to. Maybe it was because I had two friends with me and I hadn’t had enough tequila to completely silence my intuition. Or maybe all those years of “don’t go home with strangers” talk finally took hold. Since I had to drive the rental car, I’d purposely drunk less than my friends. Getting a DUI would have been the end of my parents’ grace and probably the end of what was still going to be a fun vacation. So I only had a few shots—for me that was nothing. I think that’s one of the things that saved my life. Had I been drinking as heavily as I normally did, I might have left with him and not thought twice about it. But because I was slightly sober, something in me told me not to go.
Once the story came out, and my friends and I confirmed it was the same guy, I tried not to watch the news. My best friend followed the story incessantly, but I just couldn’t. Every time I turned on the news it was a reminder that this could have been me. I could have been Natalee and not come home. So many feelings hit me in waves. What I clearly remember is that for a few months after the story broke, I was just happy to be alive.
Some time later, my dad was looking for a picture on the computer, and he saw a picture of Joran and me we’d taken at the club. He ran and grabbed my mom to show her. My mom took one look and burst into tears. Suddenly, she realized how close she’d been to losing me.
CHAPTER 8
IT FEELS LIKE HOME
I STILL REMEMBER the feeling of driving to Auburn, rental car packed to the brim with the last eighteen years of my life:
I nervously pick at my lip, a recent habit, and watch as we get farther from the place I’ve always called home. It’s nervous excitement, or at least that’s what I tell myself. It’s time to start a new life, one where no one knows that the name Stanfill goes with Bible studies and Jesus freaks, a place where I can finally be me outside the shadow of my family.
Eighty-seven miles to go. My mom talks in a quick chatter like she always does when things are changing. My dad tries to make jokes about all the cow pastures we’re passing, and I try to look like this isn’t the biggest change I’ve ever made.
An hour ago, I said good-bye to two of my three best friends, both headed to different colleges. We aren’t emotional girls, but this good-bye warranted tears. We cried and then made fun of each other for it. We hugged and promised things would be the same, but part of me knows they never will be. I watched as they pulled out of my driveway. They are as close to me as the sisters I never had, and I can’t believe they won’t be with me for this next phase of my life.
Forty miles to go. My mom is talking about dorm colors, and my dad’s wondering if anyone will think he’s in college. Sorority rush starts in a few days, and I pray that no one knows my reputation. I go over my outfits in my head, hoping
no one bought the same J.Crew dress that I have. I know rush means I won’t be able to party for a few days, but I think my roommate is bringing some wine to ease the pain of move-in. My thoughts wander on until we finally reach exit 51, which leads to my home for the next four years.
We pull into the dorm parking lot, where attendants direct us to the nearest parking spot. I wish we’d brought my mom’s Lexus; it makes us look so much cooler than this ugly rental. I make a mental note to mention it’s a rental to my new suitemates.
Thankfully, one of my best friends is also going to Auburn, and she’ll be one of my roommates. I’ve decided this is a good thing. I hope that somehow she might help me become less of a drunk. I can finally see that the life I created for myself that revolved around what felt good, looked good, and gave me instant gratification was leaving me empty. Maybe with a new life I might feel the joy my heart so desperately wants.
I know my friend’s already moved in, because I see her car parked in the lot where we stop. The moving process begins, one heavy box at a time. I don’t like manual labor; it doesn’t make me look good. Begrudgingly, I help my parents carry boxes up three flights of stairs, no elevator. The dorms are old and smell like sterile cleaner. My roommate is already unpacking, and I hug her and thank God I get to see a familiar face. The next few hours fly by, and before I know it our room has become a home. A tiny TV sits at the top of a big shelf, dressers are crammed with clothes, and a desk is full with computers and school supplies. This is the part I’m dreading: saying good-bye. I hate good-byes; they’ve never gone well for me.
I look at my mom, tears spilling from her eyes. I wrap her in a huge bear hug, the kind that says things will be okay. Despite our many differences (or should I say biting similarities?), I know I’ll miss my mom deeply. She may not agree with my decisions, and I don’t agree with her faith, but she’s my mom, and that relationship binds us. She tells me she’s so proud of me, and I can’t think of any reasons why. We don’t say a lot, just hold each other and hope this isn’t really good-bye. More tears brim in her eyes, and I hope she can’t see mine. I think about all I’ve been through in the past four years and realize my mom has never deserted me. Boys left, friendships fell apart, but my mom was my solid rock. She never stopped loving me, even when she should have, and she never gave up on me. I know I’m not where I need to be in my life, but I tell myself that one day I will be.
Popular: Boys, Booze, and Jesus Page 7