Kristina Wandzilak - The Lost Years

Copyright 2006 by Kristina Wandzilak and Constance Curry

Jeffers Press

A division of Susan Jeffers, LLC

P.O. Box 5338

Santa Monica, CA 90409

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

ISBN: 978-1-935456-75-9

This is a true story. However, we have changed the first and last names of all individuals mentioned in the book with the exception of the names of the co-authors. Some changes have also been made in the setting and chronology of events and in the descriptions of some individuals. All of the above was done to protect the identity and privacy of the individuals involved. Any resemblance between fictional names and descriptions and the names and descriptions of real persons is strictly coincidental.

KRISTINA

To Kristin, it was in your death that I was inspired to live. I miss you terribly and think of you often. Rest in peace, my dear friend.

MOM

To all my children and Moe and Tanet for showing us the way.

The throbbing in my head is so loud I can barely hear the voices outside the door. I cant remember where I am. The room is small. The walls are yellow or white I cant tell which. There is a toilet and a sink. The tile floor is hard when my knees slam onto it. The pressure behind my eyes is almost unbearable. My vision is blurry, and I can taste bitter bile at the back of my throat. My stomach starts to turn and heave as breath escapes my mouth. Its like there are holes in my lungs, and hard as I try, I cannot hold air in them. I can feel blood dripping from my nose. My body is turning inside out. Im confused, I cant fucking think, and I am so cold. The room begins to spin, and I am slipping away. Is this it? Is this what death feels like?

I always thought it would come quietly. I always thought I was not afraid to die. I had been waiting, expecting, and inviting it for years. I used to dream about what it would be like to close my eyes and never have to open them again. I longed for the peace that I was sure death would bring. I wanted to end my constant pain.

And now, in this strange, unfamiliar bathroom, I can taste death. Suddenly I am afraid. Panic comes over me, and my heart is beating fast. Then it gets quiet, very quiet. My head stops pounding, my heart slows, and theres a moment of clarity.

I am going to die by myself and no one is going to notice that I am gone. I could disappear from the face of the earth and no one would know. In that place between here and the afterlife, when the anger falls away, I realize how alone I am and how much of life I have missed.

I am twenty-one years old and I had planned on being so much more. I wanted to graduate from high school and go to college on a swimming scholarship. I wanted to study psychology, write a book, find a life, and be happy. I wanted to make my parents proud. I wanted to be someone and make a real difference in the world. I wanted to have an extraordinary life.

There are so many things that I want to say to my family, but its too late. A grip tightens around my neck, and my breath becomes very shallow. My head hits the floor, and with a deep ache in my heart and terrible regret in my soul, I close my eyes to die. My mom will be so sad that it ended this way.

It has been a good day. I am feeling hopeful, happy, and strong once again. Its been three years since Kristina left home, choosing drugs instead of help, and finally we are recovering from that terrible loss. My two younger daughters are smiling and laughing again, my son has graduated from college and has gone on to be very successful in his life, and I am healing from a painful divorce.

We are moving on. We miss Kristina terribly, but our lives are so much more peaceful without her. I never thought I would say such a thing about my own daughter, but her addiction had been totally disruptive for all of us, and life is better with her out of the house.

We have just finished dinner, and I am washing the dishes when Im overcome with a feeling of darkness that I have never known before. A mother can sense her children living and dying. I know Kristinas heart is slowing, and I am seized by tightness in my chest.

I loved her deeply, and my heart aches for her. She does not deserve to die. I pray for her to go peacefully. It will all be over soon. She will be able to rest. I will be able to rest. God, please keep her safe.

The dinner party was in full swing. All the guests had arrived, the food had been served, and music and cigar smoke filled the air.

Our two-story house was large. On the main floor, where the party was happening, there was a living room, four bedrooms, and three bathrooms. The hallways were laid with shiny hardwood, and my brother and sisters and I would spend hours sliding the length of the hall with our socks on.

The main-floor kitchen and family room were my favorite rooms. The kitchen was wide open, with wood cabinets lining the high walls, Mexican tile floors, and a fireplace that heated the whole side of the house in winter. The family room had three glass walls, and standing in the middle of the carpeted floor I sometimes felt like I could see forever. Our house was in Half Moon Bay, twenty-five minutes from the great city of San Francisco and a ten-minute car ride to the Pacific Ocean. It sat on top of a hill, so on a clear night we could see the town lit up below us.

My parents had turned the downstairs floor into an apartment, and my brother, Tyler, who is two years older than me and in high school, got to move in as soon as the remodeling was finished. It was a cool place to hang out, and I was really jealous that he got to be down in the new room. But my parents said that since Tyler was the oldest, it made sense for him to be there. They always seemed to make exceptions for him. He was allowed to do so many more things than I was, and dad would say that it was because he was older and a boy and that it was different with girls. I would feel so frustrated and invisible, but we were taught not to argue with our parents.

The front room of the downstairs apartment was a second family room with surround sound and a TV. My dad had hung a bucks head over the mantel of the huge brick fireplace, and I never understood how he could have shot such an animal or why he wanted to hang it like a trophy. It seemed violent to me, but I never questioned my father out loud.

My parents also had remodeled the small downstairs kitchen. Mom said she needed the second oven for the holidays and for parties like this. The refrigerator was always full of sodas and all the extras that wouldnt fit in the upstairs kitchen. There was a wet bar there too, stocked with all kinds of liquor and juices. My dad drank every night and my mom had her wine, but all these bottles here were for parties only. Tonight I was sitting downstairs on the white leather couch, and I could hear my parents and their friends laughing and moving about upstairs in the large dining room. The voices were muffled, but I could tell the guests were drinking and having a good time.

My middle sister, Alison, was at a slumber party. She always had some place to go. She played all sorts of sports, had a ton of friends, and stayed out of the house as much as possible. She was tall and very thin, with the blondest hair of anyone I had ever seen. Her eyes were a deep blue, and her skin was clear and tanned in the summer. I loved her, but I was mean to her. I didnt want to be mean, but she followed me around and always wanted to sit in my room. My mom said I should feel complimented that my middle sister wanted to be close to me, but I couldnt help feeling annoyed. I was the oldest daughter, and although I didnt believe my mom, I did hope that one day Alison and I could be close.