Toward a Better Way

By Madison Kroeker

Last May, Gwen Singers heart stopped.

Shes many things, a high school senior, a recovering bulimic, suffering from an anxiety disorder, lostbut arent we all in a way? She spent her summer without friends and without any kind of plug-in to the outside world. Now, going into her last year of high school, she doesnt really know what to do or where to go.

Shes best friendless. They broke apart after things went severely downhill last year. Shes boyfriendless. Hes ancient history. Add in an estranged father, and its easy to see why she feels so lost.

Gwen is just getting settled in when her older sister shows up again after a two-year absence, engaged to be married and acting as if nothing has happened.

But theres something that comes along with her reappearance that becomes not only beneficial to Gwens recovery and next stages of life, but utterly and completely definable.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Apr 24, 2014
• ISBN: 9781490827605

Madison Kroeker

Madison Kroeker initially began to write this book as a recovery process only for herself. She had battled bulimia nervosa, EDNOS, and self-harm for nearly a year at that point and had made the decision to begin the long, hard journey toward a better way of living. Jesus Christ was at her side and made her restart possible. It wasn’t long after that Madison realized the book she was writing could send a message to other people in the world that they could heal, too. That is why she decided to get it out there. Much of this book is based on personal events in Madison’s own recovery journey, though she knows the book as a whole can apply to many peoples’ lives. She wanted to give others hope that there really was more than what she was living. Madison lives in Alberta and is newly married. She is pursuing God’s will for her life with a passion for living she never knew she had.

Book preview

TOWARD A

Better Way

Madison Kroeker

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Copyright © 2014 Madison Kroeker.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

WestBow Press books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:

WestBow Press

A Division of Thomas Nelson & Zondervan

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.westbowpress.com

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4908-2761-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4908-2762-9 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4908-2760-5 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014903465

WestBow Press rev. date: 04/11/2014

Contents

The Beginning

1

2

3

4

5

6

The Middle

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

The End

"Finish each day and be done with it. You have done what you could.

Some blunders and absurdities have crept in; forget them as soon

as you can. Tomorrow is a new day. You shall begin it serenely and

with too high a spirit to be encumbered with your old nonsense."

-Ralph Waldo Emerson

"You gain strength, courage and confidence by every experience in

which you really stop to look fear in the face. You are able to say to

yourself ‘I have lived through this horror. I can take the next thing

that comes along.’ You must do the thing you think you cannot do."

-Eleanor Roosevelt

the beginning

1

The dream comes to me more as a memory than something made up in my head. Though contexts and details tend to differ—trivial things like the setting and the faces, and the color of his shirt—the feelings and outcomes are still the same, and I wake in the dull light of the first day of school with a sharp ache in the hollow place beneath my ribs, not yet sated by food.

It’s too early, is my first thought when I finally gather the strength to prop myself up on my elbows and glance across the room, out my bay window, the canary yellow curtains drawn aside to reveal a perfect, California dawn. In the next room over, I can hear my mother’s shower start up.

Groggily, I roll so that I can move my arm out from underneath me, shaking the pins-and-needles feeling from my hand and the first part of my wrist. I turn my head to check the time on my bedside clock, and sigh when I realize it’s not even six o’ clock yet.

I close my eyes, pressing my palms into my face to block out the light, but I know I won’t be able to fall back asleep now. Especially subsequent to that dream.

Today is the big day, a little voice inside my head reminds me, and my stomach twists uncomfortably at the thought. There have been too many changes—too much and too little has happened—for things to ever be remotely close to what they were before.

Over the course of the summer, I seriously considered transferring schools for my final year; but as June rolled into July, and July into August, some small part of me continuously chided myself for being so immature, so stupid, so weak and cowardly. So I’d listened to it, and after all that had happened, I’d decided to return to my former high school, despite the occurrences and events of my final months there, before special circumstances led me to, quite literally, drop from sight.

For as long as I can remember, I have always had long, dark hair, never coming so short as to drift even half an inch above my shoulders. I think I had my first real hair cut when I was five—my little brother stuck a big wad of bubble gum in my hair. And even then, the hairdresser had managed to salvage most of my hair, only having to remove approximately one and a half inches.

And so, it’s a shock, as it has been every morning since it happened, when I walk into my bathroom and catch sight of my own reflection in the mirror.

The ceiling light reflects off the crown of my head, illuminating the closely cropped flaxen colored ‘do. A few tufts of hay colored hair stick nearly straight into the air, wings curling out and up by my ears. It stops at my jaw.

Originally, I was just going to get it cut. I don’t quite know, even now, what the motive was to dye it blonde.

But here I am, a week and a half later, and I’m still not used to it. Carefully, in slow, measured movements, I lift my hands, tucking the escaped golden wings behind my ears. They curl underneath the outer shell of my pinna like a caress, tickling the very edge of my jaw.

You have a lovely, heart-shaped face; it will look fantastic on you—model-like, the stylist had reassured me when I’d brought in the picture I’d found online.

I examine my face another moment now, in the mirror, before I turn toward the shower, agitating heat beginning to thrum in my chest.

By seven forty five, I’m in high anxiety mode, and for the hundredth time since I was diagnosed and medicated, I wonder what my state would be like now if I weren’t on a prescription.

Ryan! I yell from the kitchen, where I’m zipping my canvas back pack I’ve owned since the seventh grade. I know, logically, that he won’t be able to hear me over the booming bass of his music, but I’m too high-strung to take this into consideration. Ryan!

I wait a considerable moment, keys in hand, and then I move up the stairs, taking long strides toward his bedroom door at the end of the hall. I pass my own on the way, perfectly and pristinely spotless. Without knocking, I twist the crystal handle and throw the door open. Elastic-like, it rebounds back at me, and I bring my hands up, instinctively, to block its blow to my nose.

Again, I nudge it open, more carefully this time, prepared when it catches against something and pushes back at me resistantly.

I squeeze through the slight opening, into his room. There is a minefield of basketball shorts and t-shirts on the floor, on the unmade bed under the window, on his desk. Peeking around the door, I realize what it has caught on is an extra quilt, nestled with a few stray clothes and shoes.

Ryan is sifting through his closet, tossing various articles over his shoulder. I see that he is wearing jeans—which is halfway there, at least. Also, crazy; it’s not even eight o’ clock in the morning yet, and it’s already fifty-eight degrees outside.

Picking my way across his floor, careful not to step on any surprises—with Ryan you can never be too careful—I move toward his iPod dock, blasting at full volume. The music is so loud that he hasn’t even noticed my entrance. I yank the device from the stand, the room falling silent around us. Ryan twists to look at me, surprise blooming in his dark eyes.

What was that for?

It’s almost eight o’ clock, I say, and we were supposed to be there early, too.

Ryan rolls his eyes. C’mon, Gwen. Nobody ever listens to the first day rules.

I swivel my head, plucking a t-shirt from close by. It looks relatively clean, so I toss it at him. Hurry up, please, I say as I move back to his door, I’ll be waiting in the car.

The sound my palm makes as it rebounds off of Ryan’s knuckles is surprisingly loud. He recedes immediately, sending me, I’m sure, a bewildered look that I don’t intercept, because I’m focused on the road ahead.

My car, my music.

That’s not fair, Gwen, Ryan huffs as I roll to a stop at a red light, Your music sucks.

Ryan, I warn lowly, my tone murderously maternal and scolding, you can get out right now and walk from here.

Slouching back in his seat, folding his arms over his chest, he mumbles, It would be better than listening to Angus and Julia Stone…

I glance into the rear view mirror, studying the shiny BMW convertible behind me. I don’t take the time to answer my little brother.

He sniffs indignantly when I don’t reply, and lifts his hips off his seat to pull his cell phone out of his back pocket. As he checks the screen and begins his response to a text, I study the driver behind the BMW’s wheel more closely. New sunglasses, and her hair is longer and a few shades lighter than its former espresso color, but it’s definitely Chelsee. Her lips purse as she taps her fingers on the steering wheel.

Before our falling-out, I’d always been the chauffeur. Apparently she’s gotten her license over the summer, along with a shiny new convertible. I find myself wondering if she recognizes my car, though I know she won’t recognize me in it. She hasn’t seen me since before I got my hair cut, and with sunglasses on, I’m well disguised.

I spent my summer working, and over-viewing for senior year; but mostly, I spent my summer alone. I didn’t go to the beach, I didn’t go to the In N’ Out with friends—ha, the idea—I didn’t go get ice cream or drive around in cars with boys, let alone kiss them.

I spent most of August in my mom’s office, subbing in for the receptionist while she was away on vacation. I filled my eight to four workdays by answering phone calls, opening, sorting and stamping mail, photocopying cheques, alphabetizing purchase and sales orders, filing said sales orders and handing out numerous faxes.

Quickly, I fell into the easy monotony of office work, and by the time a week had passed, I was already dreaming, or rather having nightmares, about filing—something that managed to take up a good heavy chunk of my day.

I was employed by Chelsee’s mother, technically. Being the Administrative Manager, she was in charge of the reception work for the most part. She acted very professionally, and, to put it simply, oblivious to the events she’d no doubt heard about from her daughter—I’m sure exaggerated to the umpteenth degree, as Chelsee tends to do. But if she had, she did a good job of pretending everything was exactly the same as it had always been between Chelsee and me.

Surprisingly, out of the three weeks I’d worked there, in close proximity to her mother, I only saw Chelsee once.

It had been lunch hour on approximately my eighth or ninth day at work. I’d gone into the kitchen to heat up my food, and when I’d returned to the front desk, a bottled water in my right hand, a banana—freckled, the only way I’ll eat them—balanced atop the steaming Tupperware container of leftovers in my other, Chelsee was rifling through the pile of sales orders I’d just labeled and alphabetized.

My steps had faltered, finding her there; she didn’t notice me at first. After a moment, though, she straightened and swiveled her head to look at me, a piece of note paper wedged between two of her long, dainty fingers. The nails glistened in the overhead lighting. Chelsee kept her fingernails coated in a clear, protective polish at all times.

Hi, I said finally, my voice unintentionally icy. I wanted to be nice, I wanted to put on a face like I used to do with everybody else, pretend nothing was wrong, pretend everything was fine and dandy—but now, after all I’d worked for, I just couldn’t do that.

Hey. Her tone was equally as haughty.

I moved in closer to set my lunch down and forced myself to take in a breath. What are you looking for? The syllables in my phrase were still clipped short, and I was suddenly acutely aware that my hands were shaking just slightly—something that tends to happen whenever there is any kind of upset or imbalance in my emotions.

The atmosphere between us was tense, stretched tight like the strings on a guitar. Though, if you strummed these chords, the sound emitted would be in no way beautiful.

Chelsee glanced down at the piece of paper in her hand. My mom wanted one of the Jackson sales orders, but… I held my hand out, and she dropped the tiny white square into my palm; as I turned toward the stout sheaf of papers, she continued: I couldn’t find it… You could have already filed it, but… I don’t know. Maybe I’m just blind…

I flipped to the J’s, finding the small gathering of Jackson files, and glanced at the note again. Once I’d matched the long string of numbers up, I freed the required file and handed it over to her without looking in her direction.

Thanks, she muttered, and I only looked up when I heard her footsteps fading. She paused at the door to her mother’s office and glanced back at me, her lips parting. What would she say to me if she were to shout the words across that expanse of empty space between us?

And then, she turned away, and disappeared inside.

I drop Ryan off at the front doors, and I drive around to the student lot to park. I cruise down the aisles, searching for an empty spot. As late as I am, finding a place to park isn’t so simple.

With just a few minutes to spare, I slip into a spot between a black Sentra and a freshly washed 2013 Camry.

Rushing now, I snatch my bag from the back seat, lock my doors, and start around the back bumper of my car, when I see them.

A stupid instinctual urge tells me to duck. I feel suddenly insanely vulnerable in my thin white cotton dress, even with the light blue cardigan I’m wearing over it. I feel too exposed without the hair on the back of my neck to protect me.

Without the rest of my body telling me that it’s okay, I’m moving backwards, into the shade of the white Escalade parked nearby, where they won’t be able to see me.

Milo and Chelsee aren’t talking as they make their way through the aisles of cars parked, but my gaze zeroes in on where their hands are locked together. Chelsee is wearing flats that thwack against the heated cement of the lot, but all I can hear is the sound of my heart pounding in my own ears.

I squeeze my eyes shut, but the image doesn’t go away, and against all circumstances, I crouch by the back tire as they pass, a few cars down, and they move up the staircase together, entering the office building. When the door slams shut behind them, I take in a breath, not even realizing I’ve been holding it, and I stand up.

I smooth my hands—trembling now—down the front of my dress, ignoring the churning nausea in my stomach. I hike my backpack higher on my shoulder, and I move toward the school’s entrance, to face the day I’ve so been dreading.

My first period class is homeroom. It is also my math class. I take a seat in the very back, fold my arms over my chest and watch the students stream in, gut clenched in fear. No one looks at me. Rochelle—my English partner from last year—walks in and takes the seat right in front of me, not even glancing my way. Tia—my gym buddy from sophomore year—takes a seat at the very front after shooting me a surprised look, as if she’s shocked to see me back. The problem with having a low friend count is what you do after they’re all gone.

Then I see Camille step through the door, her back pack over her shoulder. It looks huge compared to her tiny frame. She’s at the most 5’1, tiny and petite. She has olive skin, and that dark, perfect kind of curly hair that is separated into individual ringlets, no sign of frizz. She has the most beautiful blue eyes you have ever seen. They’re a darker shade, not that baby, wide eyed blue most would likely suspect, and they literally sparkle. No word of a lie.

Camille and I were best friends in kindergarten. I’ve pretty much lived in the same district my entire life, and so I know most of the kids I go to high school with, though many of them act like they’ve never seen my face in their lives before. Our kindergarten teacher’s name was Miss Ramsy and she was the funniest lady alive, I swear. But she was also so sweet. When I tripped over a chair and broke my arm the day before winter break, she scurried over and carried me to the office, and she stayed with me, after the bell rang, until one of my parents could come get me, though I’m guessing she had places to be for the holidays. She was so caring and so kind, and she had a way of making you laugh when all you wanted to do was cry. Camille and I loved her, adored her. Miss Ramsy is the only thing I remember about kindergarten, other than Camille, and the Barbies we always used to play with in the corner. We made up our own little world with those plastic figures. I named mine Ali—when I was younger, I had a strange obsession with that name—and Camille named hers Paloma.

Miss Ramsy had the best Barbie collection in the whole school. Kids would come to her room, specifically to play with her Barbies during lunch break and recess. She had a huge dollhouse, and three convertibles, red, blue and pink. There were clothes—jeans, tops, shorts, sundresses, ball gowns, little plastic shoes—galore. I’m pretty sure that I didn’t even clothe my Barbie in half the outfits Miss Ramsy had compiled.

Then one day, Camille got the chicken pox, and she had to go home early. At the time I’d been jealous when she didn’t show up for the next little while, that she got all that time off school to sit at home and play—at that age, I didn’t really get the concept of sick—but when she still wasn’t back three weeks later, I started to get worried. Even at five years of age, I was an anxious person. Camille, in short, never did come back. Turns out, her father got a last minute job offer in North Carolina, and they’d packed up and left, just like that.

And then, in freshman year, she’d reappeared. Even now, we’ve made only hesitant reconnections. Eight and a half years apart put something awkward and obstructive between us, and I’ve never been able to quite figure out how to break through it.

Now, she takes a seat in the front row, dropping her bag at her feet, and she smoothes her skirt, glancing around the room and smiling at a few people. Except for me.

At the front of the classroom, the teacher writes his name on the board. Mr. Fikk. Then, silently, letting the rest of us chatter—albeit I stay silent—he hands out forms.

Though we’ve done this eleven other times already, our teachers insist on handing out our course outlines and going over the rules and regulations each year. Each time Mr. Fikk mentions SAT, I feel the muscles in my shoulders and neck clench up.

It takes us a near entire period to read through the two page booklet and for Mr. Fikk to get the first-day class under control, or at least to pay half-hearted attention through their after-summer high.

By the time we’re finished, we have five minutes to get lockers.

Okay, so once you find your partners, Mr. Fikk calls over the sudden chaotic din, and my breathing rate spikes at the word partners, Come up to the front, and I’ll give you your locker number and combination! I think we’re all in the same area, so— And then he’s drowned out by an obnoxious whooping in the corner as some guy wearing a red fitted cap steps through the door. Jason, I think his name is. As Mr. Fikk tries to rally the guy in and record his attendance, I can feel the rate of my heart creeping up again, and I try to tame the rising anxiety attack.

Not here, not now, please, I’m begging myself, concentrating on smoothing out the wrinkles in my timetable—someone bumped me in their scattered rush to get to class. This isn’t the time to go into hyperventilation, arrhythmic heart mode.

Someone taps my shoulder and I jump, surprised at the fact that someone is actually directly addressing me in this place. When I look up and see Camille standing next to my desk, in her cute little frilly skirt and white tank top, a shock of something zings through my gut. Shock? Relief? Gratitude? Fear?

She blinks at me. Hey. Um, I don’t really know anyone in this class, so… Here she pauses, giving me the opportunity to say something, but I don’t. Finally, she finishes, Maybe you and I could be partners? I don’t think I want to share lockers with a total stranger…

Total stranger. I’m not a total stranger?

Yeah, I say, nodding. My voice cracks, just slightly. Sure.

I make it through the first four periods without relative incident—aside from my first period near-blunder—but by the time the lunch bell rings, I’m tenser than ever. Each time I walk into one of my new classes, I’m terrified I’ll see him or her. And each time, I never have. Each time, I’ve taken a seat in the back, put my bag between me and everyone else, and focused on the various motivational posters stationed around the room, avoiding eye contact at all costs, even with the teachers.

San Ramon is a pretty big school, with 2100 students at a minimum, so I am easily able to blend in, though rumor of what happened last year seems to have spread to a good chunk of the student body. I take advantage of this on my first day, knowing full well that there is the chance more people will have found out about this by tomorrow, and more by the next day. I will only be able to slip out of the spotlight once they either grow bored with me, or someone else becomes the next topic of great interest. But which will come first, and how long will it take?

It’s not until I’m in the bathroom that I realize how horrible a state I’m actually in. There is a cluster of girls gathered around the mirrors and sinks, some chatting, some reapplying their makeup. Some are stationed under the open windows, faces turned toward the half-cracked spaces, smoking.

I slide into the first available stall and shut the door behind me, resting my forehead to the peeling paint. Last year the stalls were yellow. This year they are salmon-pink, painted over to cover the graffiti.

I drop my bag at my feet, and I close my eyes, lifting one arm to fold it over my middle, to hold myself together. It seems, after I made it through an approximation of four odd hours in honest composure, now my body is reacting.

I think back to this morning, wondering if I forgot to take my medication. And when I realize I have, harebrained in my frenzied rush with Ryan, my heart speeds and so does the rate of my breathing. The simplest thing ever, and yet it triggers an anxiety attack.

Suddenly I can’t breathe, and a flood of images enters my mind: Chelsee’s and Milo’s hands, locked in the parking lot this morning, the look on my mother’s face when she showed up at the hospital all those months ago, when all the secrets had come out, her tears, silent and angry and full of guilt; the fact that she and my brother were the only ones there to support me over the summer. The fact that I’m alone, and I probably always will be, and everyone has been staring at me, and they all know what happened, because Chelsee told them, and they’re all judging me, and they think I’m a freak, and all my teachers know, and they’ll pity me, and it might even affect my grades because they’re too skittish to be honest with me.

Choking for breath, I’m now digging through my bag, shoving my hands into the deep recesses, searching, searching. My fingers hit something, and I’m pulling it out: the pill bottle—the label says Advil—I’ve filled with extra strength Ex Lax, and I’m unscrewing the lid with quivering fingers, I’m crouching on the toilet, breathing hard, heart in my head, pounding against my skull, and this is the only thing that will calm me, the only thing…

I shake a handful of tiny blue laxatives into my palm, gripping them with sweaty fingers. Merely the smooth ridges of their curved edges against my fingers and palm begin to calm me. I try to take in a deep breath and fail. Just then, my phone beeps, loudly, and I jump, fumbling the pills, and they spill to the floor, scattering like confetti over the tile. I freeze.