Chicken Soup for the College Soul

  "I didn't make it to career day yesterday," she said quietly. "I was at the health center the whole day." I gave her a sideways look, startled. "I'm fine now," she reassured me with confidence. "It was just a virus." Then she was gone.

  Two nights later, her father called to tell me that Jennifer would be missing a few classes. She had been hospitalized with meningitis. I heard from him again a

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  few days later, and again after that. Her condition had worsened, he said, and it appeared she might not finish the semester at all.

  Jenny remained hospitalized, ninety miles away from home. Her mother stayed by her side, camped out in the corner of a cramped hospital room, sleeping night after night on a chair. In the middle of the night, while Jenny slept, her mother sneaked outbut just to duck down the hall for a quick shower.

  Grandparents, ministers and long-standing friends all made their pilgrimages to the hospital room. Jenny's condition grew worse, not better. I was terrified when I saw the pale, emaciated girl who had only ten days earlier radiated life and warmth in my classroom. When her grandparents arrived, she spoke the only words during our visit. "This is my college writing teacher," she announced proudly, in a tiny voice. I remembered what her father had said in his first phone call: "School means everything to Jenny."

  A week later, Jenny herself called me to tell me she was on the road to recovery. "I'll be back," she insisted. "I have no doubt," I told her, choking back tears. But around the same time, news reports announced the meningitis-induced death of another student at another school. Jenny sank back into her hospital bed.

  Then, five weeks later, I walked into my classroom to find Jenny in her seat, smiling as she talked to the students around her. I caught my breath as her rail-thin body approached my desk, and she handed over all of her missed assignments, completed with thought and excellence. The strength of her will to overcome shone out of her pale, weak, eighteen-year-old face. It would be a few more days, though, before I learned the rest of the story.

  Jenny's suitemates, Maren and Kate, were just getting up the Sunday morning that Jenny was dragging herself

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  into the bathroom they shared. She had a horrendous headache and had been throwing up all night. Forty-five minutes later, as the two were leaving for church, she was still there. Maren had a bad feeling about Jenny and asked her Sunday school class to pray for her. When they returned to the dorm three hours later, Jenny was still violently ill. Concerned that she was becoming dehydrated, they decided to take her to the emergency room.

  The two girls lifted Jenny up and carried her out to the car, then from the car to the hospital. They spent the next seven hours at their friend's side, tracking down her parents, responding to doctors and trying to comfort a very sick eighteen-year-old through a CAT scan, a spinal tap and myriad other medical tests. They left the hospital when Jenny's parents arrived but were back the next morning when the doctors confirmed that the meningitis was bacterial. By noon, they had the whole two-hundred-member campus Christian group praying for Jenny.

  I credit these two young students with the miracle of Jenny's life. That same semester, just an hour away on another college campus, two students found a friend in a similar conditionmotionless and deathly ill. Instead of getting him to a hospital, they took a permanent marker and wrote on his forehead the number of shots he had consumed in celebration of his twenty-first birthday. Their friend died of alcohol poisoning. Jenny finished the semester with a 4.0.

  I remember being asked as a college freshman who I considered a hero. I didn't have an answer then. Since that time, I've learned that I may have been looking for heroes in the wrong places. Ask me now who I admire, and I'll tell you about a couple of ordinary college students I know.

  Jo Wiley Cornell

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  Stuck with No Way Out

  At five feet, three inches tall and well under a hundred pounds I looked at myself in the mirror and thought, How did I get to be such a pig? At that moment it struck me, I don't know where the clarity came from, but, looking back on it, I am grateful it did come. I thought, I need help. This need for perfection and this compulsive behavior was literally going to kill me.

  When I started college the stress began to take its toll and I started overeating. I was living away from home, I was separated from most of my good friends, and I was in a big school taking premed classes. I was facing many adult responsibilities that came from living away from home for the first time, and my class load was heavy. Food became my comfort, fast food became my excuseI had to eat! Chips and cookies were my reward for good grades. And, where I had shied away from eating anything closely resembling candy in the past, I now found myself frequenting snack machines and stocking up on candy bars. It was energy food, I told myself. My newfound diet along with my sedentary life of study, all

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  conspired to put the weight on. By the beginning of my sophomore year, I weighed in at 150 pounds. I couldn't believe my eyes when I stepped on the scale at the doctor's office for my yearly check-up. I had gained forty-five pounds in one year.

  I was so depressed. I was back home for the holidays. Between the horror in my mother's eyes upon seeing me, the horror in my own eyes when I saw the numbers on the scale, and becoming the butt (obvious pun intended) of all my brothers' jokes, I did what any normal, red blooded, American girl would do: I pigged out for the holidays.

  I went back to school armed with every diet book known to man from my well-meaning mother and a handful of recipes (as if I was going to cook). I could handle this. Taking off weight was never a problem for me in the past. What I didn't realize was that in the past I only needed to lose five or ten pounds at the most. I was now looking at trying to take off forty! When it didn't come off as quickly as I thought it would, I became even more desperate. I was hungry all the time, frustrated at my lack of success and facing summershorts and bathing suit season?! I don't think so!

  My dorm mate convinced me that if I just purged for one meal a day I would see a huge difference. The thought of bulimia terrified me. But she became very convincing in her argument. "Just once a day. You'll get nutrition from your other meals. You just won't be so hungry all the time." She was right in one regard, the dizziness I was experiencing from the lack of food was beginning to take its toll. I needed to pull down really good grades if I was going to get into a good medical school.

  Purging one meal, became purging two, sometimes more. The weight was dropping off. I was so excited and encouraged by seeing my waist again, I joined a gym and began to work out three days a week. Between studying

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  until all hours of the morning, running my body ragged on a treadmill and bingeing and purging, I had become a full-blown bulimic. But I couldn't even admit it to myself. I was in denial.

  When I went home for a few weeks in the summer, the accolades from my brothers and the sudden, unexpected, visits from their friends, while flattering, only made it worse. I wanted to be even thinner. My mother, however, didn't like what she saw. She was worried about the dark circles under my eyes and the pallor of my skin. Plus, my naturally calm, easy-going personality had given way to a cranky, argumentative nightmare of a person. I exploded when she questioned me about it. "What more do you want from me? I got straight As this term, lost all the weight that you were bugging me about, and I had to do it all living away from home!" My screaming fit gave way to tears and I broke down. The stress had taken its toll. My mother held me like I was three years old again. I felt comforted but trapped. How could I stop this behavior with out giving up everything I had worked so hard for? Besides, I didn't want to be fat againever.

  I assured my mother everything would be all right and I went back to school. I convinced myself that I could handle this problem, but in truth, I couldn't. I would abstain from my purging behavior for only a few days. Because I hadn't changed my eating habitsin fact they were worsemy weight would begin to go up again.
I couldn't stand it so I would begin purging again. Even my dorm mate, the friend that gave me the idea in the first place, suggested that I was out of control. Out of control? How could I be out of control when I've never felt so in control of my life and circumstances? I liked everything about this behavioralmost.

  Suddenly, I stopped having periods. My body was screaming at me and I wasn't getting the message. I was

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  taking anatomy and biology classes learning everything about the body, except how to take care of my own. One day I passed out in my dorm room while just sitting down studying. That was it. I looked at myself in the mirror and the warped part of me, the part that was responsible for this behavior, saw a girl who needed to lose more weight. But some wisdom forced it's way through and I knew I needed help.

  I ran over to the counseling office and grabbed the phone number for the eating-disorder hotline. Even though I felt like a grown-up with all these new responsibilities and being away at college, this was my first real adult act.

 

  After being in a group for three months, I was changing my behavior. I found my way out of the darkness with people who cared and professionals who were trained. I continued with the group throughout college and received enormous support for all kinds of life-changing situations I faced. I learned so many things from this experienceit's okay to be scared and you don't have to be alone or do it alone. I took all this wonderful information into my practice and it has served my patients and me well.

  When I went home for the holidays that year I was glowing. My mother hugged me and I could tell that she was enormously relieved. We stayed up until all hours of the night and talked about everything. By being honest about my circumstances, I had everything to gain. I was back, and, magicallymuch to my delightso were all my brothers' friends.

  Rosanne Martorella

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  9

  MIND OVER MATTER

  The opposite of love is not hate but indifference.

  Elie Wiesel

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  Breaking the Mold

  There is nothing in this world that I am prouder of than my ability to feel, to survive and, yes, to be a fool for what I love and believe in.

  Jodie Foster

  There I stood, in the middle of a campus that more resembled a city than a school. What was I doing there? I felt so out of place, insignificant and small. I had graduated from high school early, left all my peers behind, and now I was facing a whole new world seemingly alone. Besides that, I was painfully shy, and reaching out for help, or even companionship for that matter, seemed a daunting task. I was not the first one to ever go to college, but it sure felt that way. Maybe I just wasn't cut out for it.

  It was my first day, of my first semester, of my first year in college, and all I wanted to do was to go back to high schooland so I did. I made an appointment with my old academic counselor. I felt sure that she would have some answers for me. When she suggested I see a career counselor on campus, I thought I would cry. How could that help? She assured me that a counselor would help soothe

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  my transition, as well as be able to help me with my curriculum. I sat there while she called and arranged an appointment for me, then I walked out of her office feeling like the baby bird being given the proverbial boot.

  The next day I sat in a hall with a horde of milling students. They seemed so confident and directed and so much older than me. I was hoping that no one noticed me sitting there alone with my lunch sack. Finally, I was called into the counselor's office. She turned out to be a wealth of information, but what about these feelings of insecurity?

  ''Would you suggest therapy?'' I asked.

  Her answer surprised me. She suggested that I immediately enroll in a drama class. She noticed my obvious apprehension, but she was adamant about this particular suggestionso much so, that she marched me over to the drama department and introduced me to the acting teacher. Before I knew it, I was in.

  That first week of classes, I pretty much kept to myself. I took part in all those obligatory exercises in drama class that seemed so silly. Be a tree, feel how it feels. . . . I didn't understand how this was going to help, but I persevered. I would still escape from campus when I had a break and go over to my old high school. Even if it was just to sit in the parking lot and eat lunch, it made me feel better. Sometimes I saw some of my old friends. While they were getting ready for all the fun and excitement that their senior year had to offer, I was trying to fit into a strange new world. Maybe I had made a mistake graduating early. I was missing out on all the senior activities. If I had just waited, I wouldn't have had to do it alone; I would have been with some of my friends.

  I couldn't figure out how such a disjointed kind of school experience could lend itself to making friends or creating bonds. Each hour, I went to a classroom, miles

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  away from the last one, with different people. Who came up with this system anyway?

  Finally, I began to find some solace in my drama class. It was becoming a safe little world in an otherwise austere place. I grew more involved with the scenes we were now doing, and I was assigned a partner, which gave me an excuse to get to know someone. Besides that, I noticed that the teacher gave me roles so opposite of my own personality that they gave me an excuse to come out of my shell. I started looking forward to this one-hour class on Monday, Wednesday and Friday.

  The professor believed that the key to playing a character well was knowing yourself. Introspection became the goal over the next couple of weeks. We would lie on the stage in a large circle, with our heads toward the center, eyes closed. There we would explore our childhood, dialogue with our parents, our siblings . . . How did it make you feel? How do you feel now? People were actually crying.

  Then we would sit and talk about it. "What happened just then?" the professor would say. "Bookmark that experience for retrieval when one of your characters is crying out for it." Little did I know it, but I was shedding the layers of my own personal shyness by uncovering past experiences.

  When Jon Voight came to campus to do Hamlet, the entire drama department became involved. Everyone knew that he was bringing actors with him, but he would also be holding some roles open on the off-chance of finding talent at the university. Auditions would be held the following week, open to all. My drama teacher encouraged me to try out. I was terrified, but I thought, if I could just push through this experience, I could do anything . . . maybe even finish college.

  The monologues flew; rehearsals were rampant. Everyone helped everyone else; the excitement was

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  palpable. This felt better than a high-school dance. I was spending less time parked in my high school's parking lot and more time in the drama department. Auditions were held, and while sets were being built, people held their breaths.

  The following week, call-back sheets were posted. When I walked into the drama department, there was such a sea of people around the notice, I could barely make my way through. As people started to notice that I was standing there, it was like the way parted for me. I stepped up to the call-back sheet, and there it was as big as daymy name for the character of Ophelia. I was the only girl in the whole school to be called back for that role. Then from behind me, I heard the voice of my drama professor in my ear: "Seems like we have ourselves a star."

  And that's what I felt like. My counselor was right. I did need that drama class. The exercises gave me the courage to face myself, and Hamlet made me feel like I could do anything. I had become my own star.

  Zan Gaudioso

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  A Better Message

  My senior year of high school, I wanted to be a social worker like my older sister, Lynn. She had really inspired me. I wanted to help people, to make a difference in their lives, just like she was doing.

  I knew I had work to do because I hadn't really applied myself in high school. It was more socia
l for me than anything else. But I was looking ahead to my future, and I knew that if I really wanted to do this, I was going to need help. I made an appointment to see a guidance counselor, Mr. Shaw.