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TOUGH LOVE

By

Mark Davis

As Told To Carol Gustke

At age thirteen I was diagnosed with juvenile diabetes. I really didn't understand the seriousness of the disease. I'd go into my bedroom to give myself insulin shots. I didn't want Mom's sad eyes watching me.

That year we moved which meant a new school for me. Every day I was called to the nurse's clinic and given milk and crackers This kept my blood sugar from dropping too low. I wanted to fit in but instead I felt like a freak.

One night at a football game a group of boys huddled under the bleachers, smoking, called me over "Want a drag?" One of them held out a cigarette.
"Sure," I said, trying to sound nonchalant. I took a long draw. Shortly, everything begin to spin. The guys burst out laughing.
"We'll have to teach this boy the ropes," said a long lanky kid, his face smeared with pimples. I begin hanging out with my new friends.

"Where are you going tonight?" asked Mom.
"Chad's," I answered. "He has a new video game to show me."
I'd become an expert liar. Like the guys said, "you've got to live your own life." That sounded good to me. What kind of life did I have? Stabbing my body with needles and listening to Mom preach about diabetics who lost their legs and toes because they didn't watch their diet. Give me a break!

Over time, I switched from cigarettes, to marijuana, to angel dust, to booze.
My grades and weight plummeted. I felt lethargic, irritable and hungry. Still, I was accepted by my peers, and that's all that mattered.Mom became suspicious and finally demanded a urine sample.
"I don't care if you miss the bus. I think you're using drugs and this is my way of knowing for sure." She held out a plastic bottle.

Of course the tests came back positive. I ended up in a rehabilitation center.
There I learned about alcoholism and drug abuse. My parents also joined in the discussion groups. But Mom still wore the pants in the family and Dad retreated behind a newspaper. Did he just not care about me? I wouldn't admit it, but what I really wanted from him was a bear hug.

Two weeks after my discharge, I got drunk. This time my parents sent me to a prestigious drug facility. The first three weeks I blew off. But the fourth and last week, a counselor cornered me one day.
"If you don't get your act together, Mark you'll end up in an alley with a knife in your back."

I shrugged, and walked away, but this guy knew what he was talking about. He'd been hooked on drugs before he became a counselor. His comment rattled my phony

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