Learning to Cry

By Christopher C. Payne

The bond between a father and daughter is strong enough to weather the most violent storms, but it can also bring savage heartache. From the moment Melissa enters this world in a flurry of chaos and happiness, she holds and manipulates her father’s love. There is no way to predict the roller-coaster ride they face. Almost overnight, Melissa’s father loses his sweet, little girl. Left in her place is an erratic, unstable, deeply unhappy teenager who is hell-bent on obliterating boundaries and pushing her father, as well as her mother and sisters, to the breaking point. Caught in the middle of her parents’ divorce, she doesn’t hide her disdain for the rules. But she goes to great lengths to keep her father ignorant of just how far into trouble she falls or how she’s trapped by three “friends” from whom there is no escape. Overwhelmed by the stress his crumbling marriage causes, Melissa’s father struggles to keep his own life together while trying to save his daughter from the point of no return. He finds himself, alone, bound by his own four walls, drowning in loneliness and tears. Melissa’s father, it seems, will have to lose it all to bring her back from the brink.

• Language: English
• Publisher: JournalStone
• Release date: Jul 2, 2010
• ISBN: 9780982811924

Book preview

expectations.

Contents

Prelude

1.Day One, my daughter is born

2.The beginning

3.Dishonesty, does it come naturally to some people?

4.Which is worse, lying or stealing?

5.The Three Stooges?

6.Washington, D.C.

7.Graduation and summer

8.Sneaking out at night

9.Twain Harte

10.High school, adult decisions made by adolescents

11.Living with Dad full time

12.Party at Dad’s house

13.Imploding and our introduction to the police

14.Sneaking out at Mom’s house

15.At 19, are you really an adult?

16.Small Towns = Safety, Sex and Drugs

17.Home Sweet Home

18.One night is enough!

19.Adding a new body to the family mix!

20.Cheryl sells the house

21.Final trip to the mountains

22.Living at Mom’s

23.Party at the neighbor’s house

24.Finding your way back home again!

25.Picked up by the police, AGAIN!

26.Still drinking, now at Dad’s house

27.Turning 16 and driving!

28.Drunk driving, do all teenagers do it?

29.The family

30.Wrong place, wrong time

31.Hospital

32.Aftermath

Epilogue

Melissa is safe, curled up in her bed

Her nightmares are filled with visions of red

A child flies through the air with such grace

A gawker takes notice, with shock on his face

An automobile might travel too fast

Abruptly on impact, the speed cannot last

People are made up of blood, flesh and bone

The death of a child leaves you forever alone

Prelude

Melissa

Melissa sat, dazed and confused, on a hardwood floor.  Her head felt like it was spinning in different directions all at the same time.  Was that even possible?  She wasn’t sure, yet it seemed to be happening.  What is spinning?  Is something spinning if it is moving in a circular motion, or is it simply moving in a circular motion.  What is the definition of spinning, anyway?  She suddenly felt the need to look it up in the dictionary, but that was stupid.  What was happening to her?  She lifted her hand in the air and watched as it held a rhythmic beat, like it had a mind of its own.

She felt herself crying, but didn’t understand why.  It wasn’t as if she was really crying, yet there were tears streaming down her cheeks.  Was she alone?    She felt alone, yet she always felt alone.  Melissa had nobody, and there was no one who cared.  What was happening to her, what time was it?  She was confused on time at the moment.  It seemed to be floating by, and she had lost track of where she was or how long she had been here.  Where was she?  She appeared to be sitting on some hardwood floor in the middle of a bedroom she didn’t recognize.

The last thing Melissa remembered was heading out of her mom’s house and hooking up with Sarah.  She and Sarah were finally going to the party they discussed for the last several days.  Melissa had been looking forward to this party for some reason but couldn’t seem to remember why.  She had worn her blue spaghetti-strap top and her purple flowered bra underneath.  Her mom had yelled at her because she was leaving the house with her bra straps showing.  Damn, her parents were constantly harassing her about her bra.  They constantly complained about how they could see it underneath her shirts.  Who the hell really cared what they said.  She was tired now.  So damn tired.  She was not a slut no matter what her damn parents said.

As she looked down at the hardwood floor again she wondered where her bra was.  She seemed to be completely naked except for her socks.  Why were her socks still on?  One sock was green with stars, and the other sock was purple with some form of leaf pattern.  She never did wear matching socks.  It was kind of her thing at this point.  Matching socks were stupid if you really thought about it.  Who cares if your socks are the same on both feet?  Socks are covered by shoes.  Your shoes should be matching, but your socks?  Damn, for that matter did your shoes even have to match?  Why was she sitting on this hardwood floor?  Her butt was really starting to hurt, and she was naked.  Why was she naked?  She started screaming.  She had to stop the spinning.  Her head was hurting, and she felt herself screaming as loud as she could.

As she continued to stare at her socks she saw there were two little squirrels sitting over in the corner.  They were staring back at her and seemed to be having a conversation.  One squirrel was asking the other one if it felt they should be disappointed in Melissa.  Why the hell would a squirrel be disappointed in Melissa?  Why were these squirrels even talking?  There was that movie about those animals that could talk.  What was the name of that movie?  The Secret of…….?  No, that didn’t make sense.  Damn, it was The Witch and the Wardrobe.  It had that big lion in it.  Could the lion pounce and eat these two, shitty little squirrels?  The two of them were really beginning to bother her at this point.  Still, she was screaming, but she couldn’t remember why.  She was naked.  Was that the reason?

She felt her arm being pulled, and while Melissa attempted to yank it back, she just didn’t have the strength.  God, she felt so weak.  Why did she feel so tired?  She wanted to sleep, yet she couldn’t possibly close her eyes.  It was as if somebody had given her 80 cups of coffee and, at the same time, injected her with some kind of sleeping potion.  How can you be so sleepy and have so much energy at the same time?  Was she getting her tonsils out?  The last time she felt so detached, she remembered waking up in a hospital bed, and she had just been through surgery.  Her dad was there holding her hand.  Where was her dad now?  Why wasn’t he here with her?  She loved her dad even if he was a complete asshole.  Why do dads have to be assholes?

Who kept pulling her arm?  It looked just like Sarah except for some reason this person was all red and had horns sticking out of her head.  Why would Sarah have horns sticking out of her head?  This thing kept asking her to hurry up and seemingly wanted to help her.  Help her do what?  Why was she getting dressed?  Why was she not dressed to begin with?  What the hell was going on?  Had she died and suddenly found herself flailing about purgatory without a place to go and no clothes to get there?  She couldn’t stop crying.  Why were there squirrels in this room?  Who is this person, and why was she helping Melissa put on her pants?  Where was her underwear?  If those two God damn squirrels didn’t shut up soon she was going to walk over there and kick them with her foot, one at a time.  DEAR GOD PLEASE HELP ME, she thought. WHAT IS HAPPENING?

OMG, her legs hurt so badly.  Actually, it was her crotch that was thumping with pain, but her legs ached, as well.  Had she had sex with somebody?  She didn’t see a boy in the room, only this horned person who somehow resembled Sarah.  She was being helped up now, and it seemed like she was being guided towards the door.  There was a bed in the room that she could now see from her elevated angle.  Everything has such a different perspective when you are standing up.  A few feet higher and the entire vision of her surroundings was completely enhanced.  It was a bedroom, but not a bedroom she recognized.  Jesus, her entire body felt like it was being pinched in some sort of vice.  It was so hard to walk, to move, to keep her head from exploding into a thousand little pieces.

She was falling now, but the devil girl was holding her up, thank God.  They walked out the door, and she flipped off the two little squirrels on her way out.  Fucking squirrels.  There were several boys standing outside and they seemed to be laughing at her.  Jesus, one of them was not wearing any pants.  He was just standing there naked, pointing at her, saying something.

 Get that slut out of my house.

Who the hell did this guy think he was?  She wondered if the two God damn squirrels belonged to him.  I bet they didn’t care for him very much, if they did.  Sometimes you don’t get to pick your parents.  You are just stuck with what you get and have to make do.  Life is like that sometimes.  Getting stuck with stupid shit and, then, figuring out what to do next.

God, she didn’t feel good.  Why did she feel so badly?  Suddenly, she was puking right there next to the couch.  She thought it was a couch, but it might have been a chair.  She didn’t initially feel the pain, but from the corner of her eye she saw some boy grab her by her hair. He pulled her out the door.  Why was he dragging her?  Why was he ripping her hair out of her scalp?  She tried wiping some tears from her eyes, but when she looked at her hand, it was red.  OMG, was that blood?  She felt herself heaving again as she grabbed at the boy’s arm and tried to walk upright.  She could feel a trail of vomit following her through the opening.  She could always find her way back at least.  It was like the trail of breadcrumbs that Hansel and Gretel had left in their wicked witch story, except it was puke.

Finally she was outside and saw the devil girl screaming at the boy.  At least she wasn’t screaming at Melissa.  Her head was pounding now.  She didn’t know if she could take much more.  God, this night sucked, or was it good?  Jesus, she couldn’t remember anything.  Where the hell was she?  She just wanted to be home.  She needed to be home.  She didn’t want to throw up again, didn’t want to feel this pain.  This searing loss of what life was meant to be.  Why did she screw up?  Why did everyone point a finger at her?  Why was everything her fault?  Dear God, please let her go home.

Melissa woke up in Sarah’s bed.  Damn, what a night.  She had finally tried acid for the first time, and it had been fun. But she knew it hadn’t ended well.  She couldn’t remember everything, and Sarah was still sleeping.  She knew the party had been, at least, interesting.  How could they have been so lucky, going to a party with some high school seniors?  Jesus, her head hurt.  She must have hit it on something because there was dried blood all down the side of her face.  She would have to clean up before going home.  If her parents saw this, they would freak.  She was only 15, but life was just starting to fall into place.  She laughed a little as she looked down at Sarah.  Her hair was so bunched up on top.  It looked like two little horns were sticking out of each side.

God, what was that smell? 

Why did she smell so awful?

Day one, my daughter is born

Father

June 4, 1994.  It seems that the day my daughter was born is a good place to start, since the primary focus of this story will be on her.  I don’t think you can say she will be alone, though, at least not literally.  When you tell a story about an individual, you open up the history of an entire family.  Families are more intertwined than the intricate weavings of the most elaborate spider webs.  The secrets and inner knowledge that individuals hold against one another are better data profiles than the CIA has on Osama Bin Laden.  This may not be an appropriate comparison because the CIA has been looking for Bin Laden for years now and can’t track him down.   Our government agencies do have their issues, almost as many as teenagers themselves.

I should note for the record, June 4, 1994, is not actually the day my daughter was born.  To be specific, this is the day before she was born.  June 4, 1994, was, simply put, the beginning.  It was the day my then wife received the phone call.  The baby was not due for a few weeks.  The doctor phoned and informed Cheryl that some of her blood work came back and there were some concerning results.  The doctor wanted her at the hospital as soon as possible.  My now ex-wife’s response had been to ask if she could set up an appointment in a few days, not thinking it was anything serious.  Her face drained of blood and became ashen when the doctor told her she needed to come in immediately.  The doctor was anxious and urgently encouraged her to head to the hospital within the hour.

I was not home at the time of the dreaded conversation.  Having been a routine day before the disturbance erupted, I was working.  Cheryl had only recently begun her maternity leave.  She had wanted to wait as long as possible before eating away at the precious little time off her company allowed.  What is the deal with companies in society?  Are they growing more callous in general, or has it always been this way, and I am just now becoming aware of the dilemma.  Sure they will throw you a baby shower and buy you a few gifts with the money some of your officemates pooled together, but time off for a newborn is measured in days.  How long does it take to get adjusted to your first-born child?  Apparently it takes no more than six to eight weeks unless you choose to use your vacation time, as well.  Corporate America is a callous, cold-hearted, bureaucratic steel and iron coffin, in my opinion.  You go there to work and, then, die slowly, one day at a time.

My hysterical ex-wife phoned me in a panic.  She was frantic as she hurriedly explained her dictated instructions.  I rushed out of the office when she informed me of the situation, jumped in my car, and headed home to pick her up.  My boss at the time was understanding, being a father of four children himself, so it wasn’t a big deal when I headed out.  I was only taking a few days off, regardless of when the baby came.  Fathers apparently need very little bonding with a newborn and nowhere near the graciously allowed time a mother is offered.  A father’s time off can usually be measured in a few days at best, as if that makes any sense.

When I arrived, Cheryl was near hysterics.  You have to understand that throughout the pregnancy our unborn daughter had developed every disease imaginable.  The routine went like this:  We would go in for an appointment to see the doctor.  There would be the standard tests that all mothers and unborn babies endure.  We would, then, head home, and the anticipatory mom-to-be would read up on the test’s actual purpose. Before the sun set, she would have herself convinced the baby was suffering from water on the brain, malformed facial features, or would not be able to walk or talk or see or hear or whatever else could possibly go wrong.

This would last a few days until the results were returned, and we would find out all was normal.  Now that the doctor was calling with a valid concern, the situation was bordering on mass hysteria.  We threw some stuff in a bag and headed off to the hospital.  This was not exactly the way we planned the birthing process.  What happened to breathing and coaching your way through pain?  Where were the pillows and that nice lady nurse who was calm, collected, and telling us everything would be ok?  This was not what we had signed on for.

Now that I speak these words, and since this is a reflective story from a historical perspective, I can understand the meaning behind the phrase: does anyone ever really know what they are signing up for when they have kids?  I am going to guess the answer for 99 percent of us would be no.  If we did there might be far fewer kids in the world today.  Not that my children would be in that group.  Despite the trials and suffering, the joy and happiness has far outweighed anything my simple mind could have fathomed.  That is saying a lot, as you will see once we move further ahead.

At the time we lived in a suburb on the far eastern side of Chicago, so our drive to the hospital took approximately one hour.  It was a frantic 60 minutes, spent mostly in silence.  Cheryl continually rubbed her stomach in a circular motion as if she were trying to ease the pain the baby might already be feeling.  Mothers, both good and bad, hold an incredibly unique connection with a child.  The bond of carrying a living person inside of you is something that I cannot fathom.  While I understand the mechanics of the gestation process, I cannot for the life of me comprehend how this miracle takes place.  It just doesn’t seem logical.

We arrived out front of Northwestern Memorial Hospital and quickly moved up several floors until we reached the maternity level.  We had abruptly halted our car in the temporary parking spot.  My plan was to move the vehicle once we were settled and received the details of what we were facing.  Interestingly, we didn’t have to wait long.  We were frantically admitted. Hospital gowns were donned, and the appropriate position on the hospital bed was secured—all while I sat in the hard vinyl chair, waiting impatiently for the news. 

The doctor immediately came to update us on what we were facing and the options we had.  At the time, I remember thinking how nice it would have been to be kept waiting.  I realize we all complain about the hours spent, wasted in a waiting room at a doctor’s office.   It’s actually more perplexing when they see you at once.  It does nothing to abate your anxiety level.  In truth, it does the exact opposite. I found myself fidgeting with anticipation of the possibilities that might be presented to us.

The diagnosis was an escalating level of preeclampsia, a condition in pregnancy that causes dangerously high blood pressure in the mother.  It’s a complication that affects between 5 percent and 8 percent of pregnant women.   The biggest issue – along with the preeclampsia, which was growing severe – was that my ex’s platelets were extremely low. The doctor was concerned about her losing too much blood during birth.  I looked at both of them, a little dumbfounded.  My role in this process was coach.  I was not good at reading the books; I didn’t really know the details.  I had always figured that things would just work out fine.  I never claimed to be the smartest guy in the shed, but I was supportive.

The first step was taking all of the tests again -- check the final blood and sugar levels to see where things currently stood.  We would, then, make the decision on whether the baby should be delivered that night.  At this news, I thought Cheryl might come unglued.  She was a strong woman.  If we face facts, she was a little too strong as I would find out later in life.  At this specific moment, though, she could no longer hold it together.  The baby was not full term yet.  What did that mean?  The lungs are the last to develop.  Would the baby be placed in an incubator and held at the hospital?  Of course, none of this could be answered.  We were left to mull things over by ourselves as the nurses poked and prodded, every once in a while taking what they needed of the precious bodily fluids as they filled vial after vial with my ex-wife’s blood.

Time is a strange thing.  It consistently ticks by not moving any faster or any slower, no matter the situation.  It is an oddity, then, when you are on vacation, how quickly time flitters by.  Before you know it, you are on your way home.  That weekend trip to the wine country that was planned for a few months flies onward.  The next thing you know you are driving through traffic with two cases of cabernet in your trunk quicker than you can blink an eye, somehow on your way back to four walls of sanctuary surrounded by a white picket fence.

In other situations, time seems to creep, almost to the point where you can hear yourself breathing.  The slow inhale as your lungs expand, sifting the oxygen, letting the life-giving force filter its way through your body.  You, then, feel the exhale as the unneeded remnants are expunged from your nostrils in the rhythmic cycle-of-the-life enabling process.  Over and over again it happens, and you find yourself counting how long of a delay there is between breaths.  How long is the air normally held inside before it is exhaled?  How many breaths does a person take in a minute or an hour?  Slowly, time edges onward as you await news that could devastate your being.  Potentially changing who and what you might ever become.  How quickly can your hopes and dreams die prematurely?

Finally, the doctor entered in her sterile white coat and elitist clipboard.  Why the hell do all doctors feel the need to talk with a clipboard in their hand?  When they are going through medical school and their residencies, do they somehow grow so fond of the manmade device that it warps into an appendage of comfort?  Something as heavily relied upon as an arm or a leg or even an eye.  She stood before us, and the monotonous breathing process stopped.  Suddenly, I went from counting breaths to not breathing at all.  It felt as though I didn’t even need to breathe.  I had now been given a waiver to never breathe again.  I could sit there for hours and stoically listen as I awaited the outcome of those vaunted tests, never once pausing for a simple breath.

The doctor informed us there was nothing wrong at this point, and the tests were all coming back normal. What the hell is it with doctors anyway?  One minute they tell you everything in life is wrong, your world might be imploding upon itself, and the next minute they tell you all is well. Do they do this purposely?  Is it some need for reassurance and love that causes them to tear you down only to vault you back to the ceiling within the same arena?  I didn’t really care.  We were breathing again.  We were feeling again.  I felt my body explode as I let out a long sigh and resumed the cycle of breathing I had stopped only a few seconds before.  Our child, whom we had not even met, had survived her first roadblock.  Somehow, miraculously our baby had made it out the other side unscathed.  We were both excited and ready to head home.

With doctors nothing is ever really simple.  It isn’t black or white, right or wrong.  It is always some area of grey.  Although the tests were looking good, the doctor wanted to keep us overnight, monitoring vital signs to ensure that nothing escalated again.  It was only a precaution, but the doctor felt it was needed.  At that point who cared?  We were reluctant, yet fine with the decision, and now the logistics needed to be worked out.

I headed down to finally check on our car, which luckily was still there and not even ticketed.  I drove home, picked up some items that we had forgotten and headed back as quickly as possible.  My ex-wife was required to stay the night, and I, as her partner, was asked very politely by the mom-to-be if I would stay, as well.  I agreed as you might expect, but in no way was I looking forward to sleeping on the cot the nursing staff had so happily provided.  It wasn’t even a cot really. It was more of a faded pinkish chair that reclined to an almost prone position, but not quite.

Since it was getting late and I was exhausted from the day’s activities, I had no issue going to sleep or watching TV for a little while.  Either one was fine with me.  I had managed to make it back, park the car, and was sitting in my vinyl bed for the evening.  Unfortunately, Cheryl had developed a headache from the stress, and with her headaches came side effects.  She had migraines at times, and I was hoping this would not turn the night into a more unmanageable situation than it already was.  Damn, that sounded selfish, didn’t it?

The TV was hurting her eyes, and she asked me to turn it off. In the same breath, she asked me not to leave or fall asleep.   She wanted to rest but not be disturbed.  I, admittedly, have a snoring problem which can bother the neighbors if they don’t take proper precautions, such as earplugs or sleeping pills for anyone within a few hundred feet.  I listened to her request, but in practical terms I had no idea how to follow through.  I am one of those people whose eyelids fall shut with the dimming of the lights as my body goes horizontal.

Do you remember those dolls with the eyelids that moved as the body moved?  When the doll was standing upright the eyelids were open, and the little plastic replica was awake.  When the doll was horizontal the eyes were closed, and the little baby was fast asleep.  You have just described me in the flesh.  While I might not be manufactured from plastic and dye, I was none-the-less made from the same mold.  It was impossible for me to stay awake in a dark room with no TV while sticking, I mean sitting, in my plastic chair/cot.

If you want me to chop wood, just ask.  If the trash is overflowing and needs to be liberated from its container, no problem.  If you need a light bulb changed or the toilet doesn’t work or etc., etc., I am your man.  If you need somebody to sit in the dark and stay awake for a few hours with no form of outside stimulus, please do not call me.  I might give it my best shot, but my best shot is about as likely to work as killing an elephant with a BB gun, assuming you shot the gun backwards, hoping it would travel around the world and hit the beast on the other side.  I just couldn’t do it.

So try as I might, within a few short minutes I was out, and the orchestral symphony began drifting from my mouth and nostrils.  It grew in strength and volume with each passing minute.  My other great flaw, or strength, depending on how you look it at, is my ability to sleep very soundly.  Once I go down, I am out for the count.  Don’t attempt to wake me up, unless you are very determined and are in possession of great inner strength.

When I awoke, it was the next morning. The nurse and doctor were informing us that the night had not gone well.  They were now planning on starting the birthing process very soon.  Jesus Christ, what was it with this place?  Were we all insane?  Wasn’t I just sound asleep with the thought of heading home this morning and everything being rosy?  Couldn’t we just make up our frickin’ minds and decide one way or the other what was happening?  Everyone seemed to be freaking out.

The next few hours were filled with induced labor, drugs, induced labor, and more drugs.  Not the good kinds of drugs that help you handle the pain.  Oh no.  The nice drugs were not allowed -- something about my ex-wife’s platelets being too low.  She was only allowed the drugs that helped induce labor, and while I have not taken these drugs myself, I can attest that they do not subdue pain at all.  The exact opposite happened.  With no hope of an epidural, and the searing discomfort mounting, there seemed to be no end in sight.  I was beginning to feel tears well up each time she squeezed the mangled stub that used to be my hand.  I could try writing with my left hand for the remainder of my life.  People did learn how to do that, didn’t they?  Damn, again that sounded selfish.

Labor moved along slowly until, at some point, one of those beeping monitors must have chirped differently. The nurse then called the doctor into the room to take a look.  It is a little odd how few people are ever around while a woman is in the pre-stages of the birthing procedure.  A nurse pops in now and then, but for the most part the parents are on their own.  Now with the doctor in the room, and the nurse looking over her shoulder, it made us wonder if we were about to be propelled down another bad path.

The doctor piled some goo onto Cheryl’s stomach, so she could take a peek inside to see what that stubborn little kid was doing.  She looked from the monitor to us, then to me, specifically, and, then, back to the monitor.  Her expressionless face was suddenly contorted into a frown, and I felt my heart sinking a little.  What the hell could possibly go wrong now? The doctor informed us that she had not felt the need for a sonogram this morning since she had done one just last night, when we were admitted.  She had injected the standard dosage of Pitocin that morning to induce labor, but apparently the baby had flipped in the middle of the night and was now breech.  A physical exam confirmed this, as well.  There didn’t seem to be a head where a head was supposed to be.

The issue mounted – the preeclampsia, the low platelets, the baby being breech.  All of this added up to a C-section, and it had to happen quickly.  The baby was showing severe signs of stress, and the doctor was also worried the umbilical cord might be wrapped around her neck.

Jesus, this was too much.  We just wanted a healthy baby.  Why couldn’t we be one of those couples who get wheeled in through the door, complain a little about the food, and stroll out a day later holding a beautiful new addition to the family.  Our parents weren’t even here.  They were out of state thinking the damn little thing wasn’t due for a few weeks.

In the fleeting moments I had attempted to gather my thought patterns, the room filled with people.  The doctor must have pushed that damn button again because we went from the four of us to no less than 10 white-coated hospital staff in less than a few seconds.  When the doctor said now, she meant right the

Reviews for Learning to Cry

[shsb_4 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

***NOTE: May contain spoilers***I found this story to be very engaging. I enjoyed how the narrator, the Father, told his story, "warts & all", even when it made him look less than stellar. I thought his raw honesty at how he felt about his teenage daughter to be the absolute best part of this book.There were a few things I did not like about this book however. First, the editing was atrocious. Wrong words used (forward instead of forehead and flair instead of flare, for example), names changed spelling during the story (one boy was Donavon or Donovan, depending on the sentence). I found these issues distracted me from the story because I had to sometimes stop and decipher what the author really meant. I also did not like that the passages from the Father's point of view were written in the first person, while the daughter's passages were written in the third person. I found it disconcerting to switch back and forth. As for the story itself, it is interspersed with the Father's reminisces of his own teenage years. I'm not exactly sure why they were there--to compare the Father's teenage years to his daughter's perhaps?--but I felt that not only did they not add to the story, I found them to distract from the story. Another part of the story I had trouble with was the teenage daughter's supposed mental problems. Specifically, maybe halfway to 2/3 through the story the teenage daughter starts hearing voices in her head. These voices have names and she talks back with them. Then at the very end of the story, these voices miraculously disappear after an event that in real life would NEVER cure mental illness. I feel the story would have been immensely better without the addition of these "voices".

[kwrolsen · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This book was a good read. I am a young 8th grade special education teacher who deals with children with emotional disabilities on a daily basis. Since I do not have children and have not dealt with family members with mental illness, this book helped me realize the struggles that my students and their guardians may face daily. As I read, it constantly reminded me of one student in particular. This personal connection increased my investment in this story. I wondered about how the medical community handled Melissa's mental illness. Also, did Melissa's school follow-up with appropriate services? I'm not sure if I would agree with the way these aspects were addressed in the story. Overall, it was a good read that increased my sensitivity to my students' lives outside of school.

[sallyapollon · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

I found the subject matter interesting as a parent, although as mine have not reached their teens yet I haven't quite entered this territory. I think Payne explores every parents worst nightmare, the sense of "losing" one's child to chaos, alcohol, drugs and mental illness.I found it unbelievable that no Mental Health Care Professional offered Melissa medication for her instablility, anxiety, depression and auditory hallucinations. She was clearly self-medicating with drugs and alcohol and I was saddened to see that she really had no help from any professionals she came into contact with. Did the author have such terrible experiences? Am I the one who is unrealistic to hope for real help from a broken system? I did work as a nurse in Child Psychiatry, but that is 10 years ago and in a different city, is so much different?I also found it hard not to hold the parents responsible, (especially the mother), for not finding for Melissa the help that she needed and indeed for contributing to her ongoing demise with a sorry lack of supervision and involvement. Having said that, I haven't been in this position yet and am not sure how I would react. But could her parents really not stop her from exiting the windows late at night...really?However, the book read more like an extended essay than a completed novel. The ending felt rushed and dramatically shifted focus from Melissa, who had been the main protagonist thus far. At the same time, Melissa's issues, which were of major importance appeared to miraculously (unrealistically) resolve in the context of a sudden, stressful negatively-impacting crisis.I didn't like the language, it was too colloquial and overfull of questions, which were always unresolved--ok, perhaps rhetorical. The poems ending a few of the chapters had the sense of being hasty and lightweght. In addition there were a number of grammatical and spelling mistakes (which I'd be happy to review if you like), which added to the sense that this was a rough draft.I do think with some better editing and tightening of plot it could be a good young adult novel, it's certainly a worthwhile subject matter and the detail is authentically gritty. In that sense it does provide a good illustration of the negative consequences to teens of such behavior, although there is no practical help for parents of how to avoid or cope with the same.

[jppompilio-1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Learning to Cry is a sad book that is often difficult to read. Anyone who has had a teenage daughter can identify with much of the subject matter. Most of us who have children have experienced both the highs and lows of being a parent. In this book, it appears that the father is more involved with his daughter than her mother is. It is difficult to see the daughter, Melissa spiral into defiance, anger, drug and alcohol abuse, promiscuity and eventually mental illness. The father is obviously heartbroken and emotionally drained. He is at odds as to how to improve the situation. He has a tremendous amount of anger towards his ex-wife and expresses this anger often. He has his own difficulty with alcohol and in general appears pretty overwhelmed by the turn his life has taken. I don’t know how I thought the book would end but I was totally unprepared for the end. I think the book is worth a read.It does read more like a diary or journal than a novel, so the editing is not as tight as other books I have read.

[meggers12 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

This book was good, heart-wrenching and full of emotion...but i feel like it kind of jumped around a bit. The whole book you're thinking that the story is about melissa and then at the last second it turns into a lesson on drunk driving and the consequences. Now i love the fact that it highlighted how dangerous it is but it's like it the spotlight moved to the father at the last minute and it seems like then that should have been the case for the whole book. I don't know, just what i felt...good read though.

[croknot1 · Rating: 1 out of 5 stars]

I was so disgusted, I couldn't even finish it. All that drinking and puking.I wasn't a perfect teenager, by any means, growing up in the 60's and all.I hope she straightened up. I couldn't get through it to find out.