The Tom Tom | February 2015

The Student Voice of Antioch Community High School

Volume 53, Issue 3 www.sequoitmedia.com

02.13.2015

Come in and bring your appetite!

Antioch Dairy Queen 966 Main St. Antioch, IL 847-305-8383

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TABLE OF CONTENTS IN THIS ISSUE: FEBRUARY 2015

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ANXIETY DISORDER ARREST SOMEONE 8 BLIND 10 CLINICALLY DEPRESSED 12 EATING DISORDER 14

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FRESHMAN ON VARSITY GIVE BIRTH 18 LOVE AND BE LOVED 20 NEAR DEATH EXPERIENCE 22 NEW KID 24

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OVERCOME CANCER

PREGNANT IN HIGH SCHOOL 28 SAVE A LIFE 30 SKIING ACCIDENT 32 TRANSGENDER 34

A FORWARD FROM MIKE SAGER

It’s been my pleasure to work with the staff of the Tom Tom to help bring this issue to life.

For years I’ve been visiting classes of all ages and skill levels, from grammar thru graduate, from at-risk students to affluent ones, both in person and via the Internet. To be able to come into a classroom via Skype and quickly engage with a group that is clearly as talented and enthusiastic as this one has been wonderful. The Tom Tom staff has a distinct personality, fun yet hardworking.

That’s a great combination.

A number of years ago, Esquire used to do a regular feature called “What it Feels Like.” A lot of different writers contributed. The two I did that I remember most: A guy who’d been buried in an avalanche. A guy (Neil Armstrong) who’d walked on the moon. I’ve always loved this format. The idea is that you do the interview, transcribe the notes, and then write up a prose version of what you just heard, trying not only to capture the exact words used but also to capture the voice and the spirit of the person. It’s a wonderful exercise in empathy and understanding, which I think can be said about journalism in general when practiced in its true and honest form.

Many of the interviews that you will read in this issue were not easy for the writers to do. They asked tough personal questions about very personal experiences. It takes a lot of courage to do that.

Before you can ever write, you have to face a person and talk to them frankly about a difficult experience in an empathetic way. This is the work behind the stories. Each one of the students should be commended for reaching outside of herself or himself. Only by experiencing the world and others are we able to properly understand our own place in things.

Of course, this was all the doing of one very dedicated teacher, Patrick Johnson.

I first met Mr. Johnson when he was a journalism student at Marquette University and I was a writer in residence for a few days. His enthusiasm then, as now, is an inspiration. What lucky students who have a teacher to hatch such a scheme as this.

With that I give you Tom Tom’s “What It Feels Like” issue. TT

EDITOR’S NOTE

WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO BE THE EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

Finding time to think about what it means to be someone or something captures the theme of this issue.

MARINA PALMIERI Editor-in-Chief

L

ike everything else in life, there’s the good and the bad of being the editor-in-chief of the Tom Tom. Of course, there’s the frustrating layouts that never seem to get done. There’s the lost files that take hours to redo. There’s the staying after school until 9 p.m. to make sure every part of the magazine is edited and finished. But, like the most special and rewarding things in life, the

the TOM TOM staff

2014-2015

Marina Palmieri Editor-in-Chief

Madelyn Chassay Mr. Patrick Johnson, CJE Senior Editor Adviser

Arlenne Lozano Managing Editor

Nicholas Dorosan Kyle Heywood Digital Director Creative Director

Kristina Esdale Clay Vesser Johnny Horton Advertising Director Asst. Digital Director Photo Editor Madison Paddock Nathan Borries Lifestyles Editor Sports Editor

Madelynn Soberano News Editor

TOM TOM STAFF Lauren Ponzetti Alex Ruano Jessica Guzman Paige Gruber Chris Bedolla Abigail Ellsworth Briana Jimenez

Dan Meade Shannon Zogran Brianna Linco Jordan Staten Nathaniel Alexander Grant Haider

Theodore Martinek Yasmin Lara Abby Pierce Nathan Formella Shane Sorensen Christina Michaels Natasha Reid

Mission Statement

Letters to the Editor

The Tom Tom provides fair and balanced news reporting for the Lake County area.

The Tom Tom is a student-run news organization that serves the Antioch community through a quarterly print news magazine and daily online content.

It is our duty to encourage the involvement of town activities and sporting events.

The Tom Tom is an open forum publication and strives to inform, educate and improve the atmosphere and student body here at Antioch Community High School.

Letters to the editor must be signed and should not exceed 250 words in length. Those wishing to withhold his or her name must still sign the letter for the Tom Tom office purposes.

No more than two signatures can represent a letter. Unsigned letters will not be printed.

The Tom Tom staff reserves the right to edit lengthy material or withhold the publication of any letters.

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good outweighs the bad. The relationships created make the hours of hard work more than worth it. There’s the meetings after school that turn into nights full of Chinese food and laughter with people you call family. There’s the unbelievable feeling of helping a writer, designer or photographer accomplish his or her goal. And, finally, there’s the feeling of working as a team to create a 36-page magazine and daily website that students, teachers, administrators, parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles and community members read, recognize and enjoy.

There are many words that can be used to describe an editor-in-chief, including confident, decisive, dedicated and empowering. Before becoming the Tom Tom’s managing editor then editor-in-chief, I did not think I portrayed these traits that are necessary to be the leader of a publication. However, throughout the past two years, I gained the leadership qualities I needed to be successful now and into the future from my fellow staff members and adviser. I learned to make decisions and be confident in my ability to do so. I learned the value of dedication and motivation; nothing beats helping other Tom Tommers write stories, take photos and design layouts that they are proud to share with their friends and family.

Recently, the Tom Tom was fortunate to have the amazing opportunity to Skype with bestselling author and award-winning journalist Mike Sager. Throughout his career, beyond his ample experiences interviewing and writing about celebrities (like Paris Hilton and Kobe Bryant) and everyday people, he wrote and edited multiple “what it feels like” stories that appear in Esquire magazine’s What It Feels Like anthology. He encouraged each member of the staff to take on the challenge of writing their very own “what it feels like” story, which is what the theme of this issue became. And, as always, February’s magazine contains many diverse and relatable features, such as what it feels like to be the new kid, to be a freshman on varsity and to love and be loved.

And we also explore darker topics, such as what it feels like to have an eating disorder, to have an anxiety disorder, to have depression or to get into a life-threatening accident and get back up again.

In addition to Sager’s mentorship this issue, we also asked our adviser, Mr. Johnson, to write and work through the process of writing these stories with us. We felt that if there was ever going to be an issue where we could experience writing with him first-hand, it would certainly be this one. He was able to relearn what it feels like to be a journalist, and the story he crafted along with us is featured in this magazine. This experience allowed us to learn so much more authentically, as well as gave us an opportunity to further cement why we are so fortunate to have Johnson as our teacher, adviser and mentor. To Sager and Johnson, we thank both of you for challenging us this issue to go beyond the basics and focus on what matters: the stories.

This issue does not have sections. This issue does not have a One|Sequoit. This issue does not have a staff editorial. And, this issue is not written in third person. These stories are told in the first person and will not have traditional bylines of our staff members. Instead, the bylines will be those of the person who experienced the story, telling the story about what it feels like to ___. This issue is not about us. This issue is about a conversation. Each story is a result of multiple hours of interviewing. Each story is written by a journalist using the voice and story of the source. These stories are beautiful, haunting and full of heart. We want you to feel and experience these stories first-hand and we want you to hear these stories from the voices that should be telling them: the people who experienced it.

This issue as about giving voices to the voiceless.

We hope you enjoy and get a taste of what it feels like. TT

WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO HAVE AN

ANXIETY DISORDER

BY ANONYMOUS AS TOLD TO MADELYN CHASSAY

Sweat drips.

Hands tremble.

Eyes shake.

Chest cramps.

Body aches.

Heart races.

Suddenly I feel like I’m not breathing anymore.

There’s a lump in my throat that’s suffocating me. I feel as if I’ll never speak again.

“What’s wrong? Are you okay? Just calm down, stop worrying so much,” the people around me reiterate.

I try to formulate a response. I can’t speak.

Not being able to speak makes me more aggravated.

“Why does this happen to me? When will it end? I’m pathetic,” I think to myself. These questions, followed by hundreds more, haunt me. Sometimes only one at a time, sometimes all at once.

Worrying is normal. Everyone gets anxious sometimes.

But for me, it’s an all-day, most everyday routine. For me, worries and fears are so constant that I am unable to relax or function. It gets to the point where I can no longer sleep, or enjoy activities I used to have a passion for, or go to certain places or be around certain people. These fears have taken over my life.

The thing about having an anxiety disorder is that I know it’s stupid. I deeply know that whatever happened wasn’t a big deal and it shouldn’t be affecting me this terribly. But that’s where the disorder kicks in; suddenly

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the small thing is a large thing and it keeps growing in my head, flooding my chest and trying to escape from under my skin. I know with all of my being that I’m being a bit ridiculous and I hate every second of it. And the fact that many people do not recognize or have patience for this illness only makes everything worse.

Having social anxiety is especially difficult in school when I have to participate in discussions and present projects, or just finding someone to sit with at lunch; simple things many people don’t think twice about. It really has a lasting impact on how I live my life.

Social anxiety is not “I’m going to stay home and watch Netflix because I hate people;” social anxiety is “I want to desperately go out with my friends and have a fun time but I cannot physically get myself to go.” Anxiety does not mean being shy and “cute.” These are real mental disorders.

What many people do not understand is that there are many different types of anxiety disorders, the main ones being Generalized Anxiety Disorder and Social Anxiety Disorder. The two can go hand in hand. I mainly suffer from GAD, but still have issues with social anxiety.

Like myself, many who suffer from an anxiety disorder have other disorders as a result of their anxiety. One of the main ones is Agoraphobia. I once had a panic attack at a concert from being in the crowd surrounded by so many people, and my friends had to pretty much carry me out. Now, if I even get myself to go to a concert, I cannot go into the crowd because I have such a strong fear of that happening again. If I’m ever surrounded by a crowd, all I can think of is that experience. It’s one of my triggers.

It is important for others to know and un-

derstand the different types of anxiety disorders. I have noticed that recently, due to pop culture and other factors, teens and young adults have been glamorizing mental disorders in order to appear unique or to gain attention from others. It is essential that everyone understands the true harms of a mental disorder and to not pretend to have one.

Mental disorders are not a joke or anything to mess with; it is also somewhat insulting to those who actually have the disorder.

I am not my disorder. People with any disorder are not their disorder. These are real illnesses. It is okay to worry. It is okay to be scared. There are treatments and people willing to help.

For the longest time, I kept my anxiety hidden from everyone. I was scared no one would understand. I was scared of feeling rejected more than I already do. But when I finally told those who care about me, they were there to help. They help talk me down from my panic attacks and make me feel safe.

I recommend that those suffering from anxiety seek the help that they need and deserve.

This is what it feels like to have an anxiety disorder. TT If you or someone you know is currently suffering from anxiety do not hesitate to talk to an adult—parents, family, teachers, administrators or counselors. The Mental Health Association of Illinois Valley has a hotline available Monday-Friday if you are struggling and need to speak to someone. Call 309-673-7373 to reach the hotline. Other organizations offer similar services and can be found by a quick online search.

Photo by Kyle Heywood

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WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO

ARREST SOMEONE

BY PAUL SOBERANO AS TOLD TO NATHAN FORMELLA

It was just another ordinary day for me as a police officer. I woke up, suited up and went off to work like any other day. I assumed it would be a typical work day, maybe pull someone over for speeding, maybe help someone with car trouble, nothing major.

What I didn’t know was that this day was not going to be like any other day I’ve had working for the police department.

As the day was slowly coming towards an end, I was continuing to drive around on patrol when I saw a man in a parked car on the side of the road. I decided to pull over to see if he needed any assistance. The man seemed ordinary. It didn’t look like he was injured or had done anything wrong. Although once I had pulled up to the curb I noticed that the man was very surprised and caught off guard.

In my head I immediately knew this was a red flag.

I ran the man’s license plate number on my computer to find out if he had any violations on his record. Bingo: a suspended driver’s license. Since this man’s driver’s license was suspended, he is not legally allowed to drive a vehicle on the road. As I checked his record, the man got out of his car and stood on the side of the road nervously. I slowly approached the man to confront him. I told him he should not be driving with a suspended driver’s license because it will come with consequences. He clearly was not happy.

Things went downhill from there.

As I calmly talked to the man trying to explain what was going to happen, he suddenly took off, sprinting down the side of the road.

And this wasn’t just any road; it was a main highway where cars were flying at me from both directions. It was very dark outside,

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nearly eight p.m. I am doing the best I can to get the man off the road for his own safety, as well as the safety of everyone else on the road. I was not only concerned about my own well-being but also the well-being of the man I am chasing down. I needed to make sure he would not cause a car crash that will harm others. As I continue to chase him down the road, just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse, they did.

The man ran out into the middle of the road to try and escape me.

He ran right into the flow of traffic flying by.

I ran out after him, getting into somewhat of a tug of war match as I try to pull him off of the road. I am in desperate need of help to get this man off the road at this point. I feel almost helpless as I wrestle with this man. I did call for backup, which takes about a couple minutes to get there, but to me it felt like a lifetime before they could get to the scene.

My backup finally showed up to the scene at the perfect time. The other police officer ran over and pulled the man off of me and started to wrestle with the man himself.

When I got back up and saw the other officer fighting with the man, I thought to myself: this cannot be happening right now. I forced myself to get back into the action. I needed to help the other officer out. We were in no way going to let this man get away. There were many officers who came to help get this man down once and for all. I was completely taken back and just could not believe it was taking so many officers and so much time to

take down one man. It was quite a scene, with multiple police officers attempting to arrest one man, in the middle of a highway, where cars are still flying by and swerving around us to avoid a collision, while it’s pitch black outside.

We did finally take down the man and started going through the arresting process. This is a great feeling knowing that we had taken this man down and he was going to be taken off the streets.

We got the man down, slapped some cuffs on him, then read him his Miranda rights.

You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. Do you understand the rights I have just read to you? With these rights in mind, do you wish to speak to me?

The actual putting of the handcuffs on the man is hard to fathom, but when you realize they have done something bad to deserve this it’s more understandable. We eventually pulled the man into the back seat of the car.

All that was next was to take the man down to the station to process his information and that was that. That was after the fact that all of us had to wrestle this man down in the middle of the road and put many lives in danger. I realized how scary and dangerous that entire situation was and just was amazed no one was severely injured. Of course this is not how every arrest occurs but it just shows how dangerous it can get to just arrest one person.

This experience was just so outrageous and I doubt I’ll have another experience like this one. TT

Photo by Kyle Heywood

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WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO BE

BLIND

BY ANDREW PIMPO AS TOLD TO KRISTINA ESDALE

The doctors called it unexplainable, and quite strange.

My mother and I called it a miracle.

CHILDHOOD

Growing up with a disability was rough to say the least. Being a blind child was confusing, not only to me, but to my young classmates and friends as well.

“Why did you get a different size paper than I did?”

“Why do you hold it up to your face like that?”

“Are you okay? Your eyes keep looking around everywhere.”

“Hey, are you even looking at me? I’m trying to talk to you.”

These questions come with having an issue like mine. But, I wouldn’t say that it’s an issue. I think it’s a blessing. But, seeing its perks were hard to do when I was young, especially when I was not old enough to understand why I can’t see.

The problems didn’t only arise in the classroom, but with my family as well. From simply playing with legos with my brother to helping my mom clean, there was definitely still quite a struggle. Being the only blind kid in my family with three other completely normal siblings isn’t exactly easy.

“Hey, look! Do you see that deer? He’s right in between the trees there,” My dad said excitedly as he pointed somewhere out the windshield.

My siblings all leaned towards their windows in the car to try and get a better look. I followed along, gazing out into the vast forest where my dad had spotted the deer. But I came up short as I realized it was all just a blur past the first tree. I sunk back into my seat, defeated, embarrassed and confused as my sisters continued to point and laugh at something that I would probably never get the chance to see up close.

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THE MIRACLE

No registered vision. Those were the words that the doctors had spoken to my parents when I was born. There seemed to be no chance of me ever being able to see; not even a little. Thats why the doctors were so shocked when I was brought back five months later for a check-up.

It came by surprise to not only to the doctors, but my entire family. The doctors announced that the impossible had happened; I could see. Not completely clearly, of course.

But I could see blurs of people, and would even be able to read.

My parents thanked God every single day for this miraculous gift that He had given us. They truly believed that it had happened because they had prayed each and every day since the day I was born for me to be able to have vision. It strengthened my entire family’s belief in God. It gave us faith.

My belief in God has helped me cope with my visual impairment. He gives me strength.

He gives me something to fight for and something to lean on when I’m feeling alone or lost. My faith is my rock and my one thing to turn to in a time of need.

...

The routine was the same every single day.

Wake up. Go to school. Stay on the same path through my classes so I don’t get confused.

Sit in the front row in every class so I can attempt to take notes off of the board. Tap my classmate on the shoulder and ask him to tell me what that one word is that just seems too far away for me to be able to read. Repeat.

I wouldn’t exactly be able to tell you how blind I am. I have nothing to compare it to, all I know is that is has improved. Some days are worse than others; my vision is supposed to be stable. But I’ve learned how to navigate around school, around my house, anywhere.

I’ve taught myself where to walk, where not to walk, what to avoid, which staircase to go

up, how many stairs I have to walk up. It’s complicated, but I make it work so I can go about my school day with ease.

But every so often, I had a change in my daily routine. An embarrassing situation, like accidently saying hi to someone in the hallway who I thought I knew- but realized, as soon as they got close enough that I could see their face somewhat more clearly, that I had absolutely no idea who they were. And based off the look on their now in-focus faces, had no idea who I was, nor did they care.

Or, being able to get a chance to do what I loved, what I had a passion for. I discovered my love for photography a few years back. It wasn’t just a hobby to me. It was a revelation, a beacon of hope. I looked through that camera lens and suddenly everything came into focus; I could see a bird up in the tree branches, or the clear face of my mom or sister. I could finally see every little detail.

I didn’t see my blindness as a road block. I didn’t let me being visually impaired stop me from achieving my goals. Besides my vision, I think it made everything more clear for me.

I payed more attention to everyone’s conversations in the hallways. I could tell people’s facial expressions just by the tone of their voices. Even though I was blind, I believe that I could see things more clearly than anybody else. TT Each year, the American Printing House for the Blind polls each state for data on the number of legally blind children (through age 21) enrolled in elementary and high school in the U.S. eligible to receive free reading matter in Braille, large print, or audio format. This is used to develop federal funds to be spent in each state for material in each alternative format so that they can make school less of a challenge for blind children. There are approximately 60,393 legally blind students in the U.S.

Photo by Johnny Horton

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WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO BE

CLINICALLY DEPRESSED

BY ANONYMOUS AS TOLD TO BRIANNA LINCO

Depression gets really hard in the winter.

With the sky darker in the morning, getting myself out of bed becomes harder. Anxiety does not really help with not wanting to leave the house either. I have really bad anxiety about snow, driving especially. I was in a car accident in the snow, and that is what kind of set off my anxiety. When we had the cold days recently, I just stayed inside the house.

I was always shy; I did not talk to anyone until I was four. Other than family. I would hide, and never wanted to talk to people. That is when I started to hide everything, like not telling people if I was sick or upset. It just got too far. My grandma, mom and sister also have depression and anxiety. But, my sister has way more problems than I do. When I was younger, my sister started doing terrible things, and I constantly felt that no one would believe me. My mom would leave me home alone with her not knowing what was happening. When I was in sixth grade my sister convinced me to go to a high school party.

She got me doing drugs in seventh grade. She kept saying, “Just do it, just do it.” To this day I still smoke weed. Then I started getting into really bad drugs. I did stop. But if someone were to offer me any type of drug, I would take it. I do not care enough about my body to think that it is bad for me. My sister physically abused me until eighth grade and that is when depression first hit me. She became so reckless that she was sent to the hospital, and that was when my mom realized what was happening. The worst time was when my mom had to hit my sister to get her off of me.

My immediate family knows about our hospitalization. They are great support, especially my mom and grandma. My boyfriend also knows everything. We reached over a year in our relationship. He helped put me into the hospital this past time. I just got out not too long ago. My sister and I worked out

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some of our issues. During my junior year, she went to the hospital for a while. When she came back is when we started to go through counseling. I think my depression was caused by genetics and also my own thoughts. There is a chemical imbalance in my brain; I do not really blame it on anything.

I kind of just sit and think. I just feel like I am mentally exhausted all the time because of thinking all day.

Sometimes I will just wake up and force myself to go back to sleep so I do not have to start the day. I have a new sleep app called sleep cycle and it studies my sleep so I know when I wake up consistently. Even on medication I will wake up every hour. I eat and get back in bed. Then my mom will always try to get me up. If I have something that I like to do that day, then I will get up.

She usually bribes me. For me, it is more of getting over being upset to leave.

On March 15, 2013, I overdosed. I took 600 milligrams of effexor, my medication.

I sent one of my really good friends a good-bye text before I overdosed. She called my sister, who then called my mom, and she left work to come home and find me. I already overdosed on the pills. She rushed me into the emergency room. When I was being seen by the doctor, it was too late to pump my stomach. They took charcoal, crushed it, put it into a cup of water, and I had to drink it. You are messed up out of your brain. You begin to throw up all over yourself. It was terrible. For the longest time after that I couldn’t even say the word charcoal. I couldn’t even look at it in the stores or go down the aisles that have it. You know the feeling people get when they hear nails on the chalkboard? That’s how I felt with charcoal. My avoidance for charcoal lasted for nearly two years. I am just now starting to get over it.

They do not let you go home after you at-

tempt suicide. You get put into a patient facility and it is scary. They are scary. We had to share rooms. My roommate swallowed a 200 piece puzzle and 20 staples. The people in the hospital are normal people though. You can have a conversation with each other and, in a sense, it was not weird, but we talked about each other's situation.

For a long time I never planned to live past 35 years old.

To me, that is when someone is married, has kids, etc. My boyfriend changed that though. I can actually picture a future with him. It is weird, and I do not know how he puts up with me. I have a thing with my neck where I do not like being touched there. We were just messing around and he accidently touched my neck, and I got scared. He dealt with my panic attack so well, and comforts me when I cry at any time for no reason.

The sad part is you will never know who is affected by it, and sometimes people throwing out “I’m depressed” in everyday conversation is what can set someone off. It isn’t what anyone would think because we glorify it quite easily. It’s hard because you just never know who is suffering, like really suffering.

You don’t choose to be depressed. I didn’t pick to suffer like I do. Now, I just have to learn to live and to realize that turning 36 will be pretty awesome someday. TT If you or someone you know is currently suffering from depression do not hesitate to talk to an adult—parents, family, teachers, administrators or counselors. The Mental Health Association of Illinois Valley has a hotline available Monday-Friday if you are struggling and need to speak to someone. Call 309-673-7373 to reach the hotline. Other organizations offer similar services and can be found by a quick online search.

Photo by Kyle Heywood

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13

WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO HAVE AN

EATING DISORDER

BY ANONYMOUS AS TOLD TO PATRICK JOHNSON

Each day it doesn't get easier.

Each day the routine, the ritual, doesn't change.

Each day, while standing in front of the mirror—focusing on the yellowing of my teeth, the crackling of my skin and the overflowing bulges of my fat--it doesn't go away.

Each day the tears flow slowly. First, they gently gather in the corners of my bloodshot eyes, providing a light sheen on the now eggshell colored whites. As the tears continue to build, much like the hatred of myself, they pack so tightly that they are forced to steadily release. Each drop is another piece of me escaping from a trip to an early grave.

Each drop ventures into the crevice where the roundness of my cheeks once appeared. Each drop is nearly trapped in the canyon of skin and bone, only to find a simple pathway down my sunken jawline, a last ditch effort of hope and safety. The tear falls. It hits nothing else until the floor.

Each day my eyes sink further and further into despair, both physically and emotionally. The greying circles beneath my colorless eyes provide no contrast against my lifeless skin. Each day, I stare at a skeleton of myself, forgetting who I once was. I fear who I was.

The skeleton of perfection is who I wanted to become.

Each day my hair falls out. It started a strand at a time, still vibrant as it rested on my then broad shoulders. As each day passes, more and more of my lifeless hair recedes and falls. It's more noticeable now than when it first began.

Each day my nails become grittier and more frail. The white flecks of malnourishment frequent my nail beds. My incessant drive to cut my nails until they bleed leave scars far worse than the ones visible to the naked eye. Each day I cut deeper and deeper not just at my nails, but at myself.

Each day my stomach sinks deeper. My ribs protrude through my already fragile skin.

My heart beats slower than before. Maybe it, much like the tears, knows what's coming. However, instead of looking for an es-

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cape, the subtle pounding of my heart gently lulls me to sleep. Each day I grow more and more tired and less and less hungry. My pulse weakens and my blood runs cold.

Each day, as my sunken eyes look in the mirror at a reflection full of fear and disgust, I hate myself. The mirror doesn't hide insecurities. The mirror isn't an opportunity for a childish illusion or trick. The mirror can't provide an escape or a simple white lie. Each day, the mirror provides my truth.

Each day I stare straight into the person I’ve become: a man with an eating disorder.

The problem is that so many people think it is either a girl-only thing or it only about the food. Well, I can tell you right now that it isn’t just a girl problem. I’m bulimic, but that isn’t the only eating disorder out there.

There are thousands of men and women going to the gym every day for countless hours seeking out perfection and muscle. They try to become the Barbie, the Ken, the G.I. Joe. That’s an eating disorder, too. And, really, it isn’t just about eating. Food is simply something I can control; it helps stiffle my obsessive personality and kills off the fat that I stare at daily.

It is the mental game with yourself. It’s a game I’m never going to win because I won’t let myself win.

Having an eating disorder is the pain of obsessing over something you can’t stand to stare at any longer. It’s the shame of not feeling comfortable in your own skin. It's me trying to be normal. The saddest part? It isn't normal because normal isn't perfect. And perfect isn't normal.

Part of my problem is that I’m afraid. I’m afraid to look the way I do and I’m afraid to be open about my struggles because of what others will think of me. I’m sure when I was younger, back in middle school when my weight issues started, I should have sought out treatment. But, really, how do you look your mom in the eyes and say, “hey, Mom, I really hate myself so I stick my fingers down my throat after every meal and hope to God it comes up so I can avoid gaining weight.”

I’m slightly above average in height. At one point I dipped just below 140 pounds, which is nearly 30 pounds below average healthy weight for my height. My skin stretched tightly over my ribs and hips. I had weird sores on my knuckles that I used to lie about and say they’d be from hitting walls.

Like that was much better. At one point, three of my teeth broke in a matter of a few months. And then I’d get the dreams. I still get them. I’d lose teeth uncontrollably and I couldn’t face people as a result. I couldn’t escape myself awake or asleep. My rock bottom was when I hit 136 pounds and my roommate found me curled up around the toilet, toothbrush in hand, shivering. He forced me the next day to go talk to someone.

While I knew what I was doing was wrong, I couldn’t stand who I was. I still can’t some days. It is an illness that multiple counselors have told me is not going away. Instead, I have to learn to live with who I am. Thankfully, I’ve had three people who cared to save me since I wasn’t willing to save myself.

I am average build.

I am average height.

I am just like anyone else. Just like everyone else, I have a secret. I have my own skeletons. I have a story to tell.

I want to tell my story, but I am still too ashamed to have my name be recognized. I want the shame to go away.

I am not the only one who knows what it feels like to have this shame. I am one of thousands of men and women in the United States who fight this battle every single day.

I am a man with an eating disorder. TT If you or someone you know is currently suffering from an eating disorder, do not hesitate to talk to an adult—parents, family, teachers, administrators or counselors. The National Eating Disorders Association has a hotline available Monday-Friday if you are struggling and need to speak to someone. Call 1-800-931-2237 to reach the hotline. Other organizations offer similar services and can be found by a quick online search.

Photo by Johnny Horton

Tom Tom 02.13.15

15

WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO BE THE ON

FRESHMAN VARSITY

BY JILLIAN EVERETT AS TOLD TO SHANNON ZOGRAN

I always heard of the freshmen athletes that make varsity in their sports. I dreamt of being that stud. Not just making the basketball team, but playing above my junior and senior teammates--being the leading scorer.

The dream seemed attainable when it came to softball considering I’ve played it since I was nine. Softball was second nature. Basketball, though, was a different story.

I played throughout all of middle school and was a starter; I was tall and strong which made me the perfect post player. Yet, even though I was a big part of my basketball team, softball was and always will be my number one sport. I decided against playing Junior Sequoits basketball with my fellow teammates and instead played travel softball during my sixth, seventh and eighth grade years. This set me up for great success in softball and a mediocre basketball career.

At the end of October I went into the basketball season knowing exactly where I’d be: on the freshman team with all of my friends.

In my comfort zone as a starting post player.

Dominating the conference just like we did in middle school. I didn’t imagine not playing with my middle school teammates, not seeing them at practice every day or not celebrating our wins together, forgetting about losses. I did dream of being that freshman on varsity, but I assumed my time would not come until the spring. It wasn’t until I was lightly pushed, then pulled out of my comfort zone that I realized maybe neither would happen: never to be the stud on varsity or a part of the freshman dream team.

During the first day of basketball tryouts, all three levels—freshman, junior varsity and varsity—practiced in the same gym. We all shot around for the first ten minutes or so.

All the freshmen, including myself, were crowded at one basket shooting. There were so many of us, but I was having fun running around and shooting while talking to my friends. Everything was so relaxed. Our coaches called us over, separating the levels into two groups to do full court drills. Varsity and not varsity, them and us. Or at least that’s what I thought.

Then we were about to start scrimmaging.

But before it all started and teams were made, I was called off the court over to the sideline where the varsity coaches were. Where my coach was. Of course, at the time, I didn’t know he would be my coach.

Luckily, I wasn't alone. My friend was called over as well and we were both told that

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we would be scrimmaging with the varsity players rather than the other freshmen.

OK. I can do this, I have my friend with me, this will be fine.

I saw some familiar faces on the team, but there was no one I was really friends with.

Just some girls I remember playing with one game over the summer.

Finally we began scrimmaging. I was nervous and knew I had to try especially hard being a freshman playing with experienced upperclassmen and that was fine. It was a lot of running. Back and forth, back and forth.

I survived. Everything went well. I got it over with.

I didn’t know my time with the varsity team and coach was no where near over. It was just beginning.

“Hey Jill!”

Oh, what did I do wrong?

I walk over to the varsity coach, Coach Borries.

“I want you to come back from 5:00 to 8:30 for our tryout again.”

Our as in varsity.

“Don’t be late.”

At this point I’m just so frazzled I nervously add, “I’ll be there 30 minutes early!”

“Oh, no...no. Just try to be there about 15 minutes early,” he says, laughing at how frazzled I am.

So I’m there. Fifteen minutes early. The only freshman in a gym full of varsity veterans. Everyone else is socializing in small groups, laughing at some jokes and talking about their day. I tie my shoes in the corner because I don’t want to intrude on anyone’s business. Then one of the upperclassmen call me over.

“Jill, stop being so awkward. Come join us.”

Slightly before the conclusion of the second practice, Coach Borries pulls me aside.

“Jill, we want you on varsity but it is your decision. You can either play on varsity or play on the freshman team.”

This decision surprisingly comes difficult to me. Do I play with my friends, on the dream team, or do I play on varsity, working twice as hard as anyone else? Luckily, Coach Borries pulls me aside just ten minutes later, making the decision for me.

“I actually decided you don’t have a choice, you’ll be on varsity. You’ll learn more during one week of varsity practice than in one season of freshman basketball.”

Well, I guess I’m here to stay. This could

be cool, or it could be a disaster. I’ll have to take it day by day.

And that’s exactly what I do, take it day by day.

Again, I come to varsity’s practice the next day. Again, 15 minutes early. I tie my shoes in the corner. I mind my own business. I laugh when they laugh. I try extra hard when shooting. I try extra hard when dribbling. I try extra hard when scrimmaging. All of this, just to get by, just to fit in.

This practice ritual continues for days. Try hard. Fit in. Try hard. Fit in. The drills come more easily as does the scrimmaging. No more learning, just doing.

In two weeks time, I begin to form relationships with my coaches and teammates.

This helped me adjust. After the first week, I find myself getting to practice 15 minutes early, tying my shoes with my teammates, telling my own stories, laughing as I choose.

On the court, I feel myself calm down. I keep trying hard, I keep pushing myself knowing that freshmen on varsity always have higher expectations, but I’m less frazzled.

I continue taking everything day by day, but I now never dread arriving at practice. I’m now always excited to see my teammates. It’s no longer the “varsity and not varsity, them and us” mentality I had being a freshman going into the basketball season. It’s now us, it’s now team, it’s now together.

I think of myself in amazement, wondering how I did not just survive my first two weeks on varsity, but my time with my new team was shaping out to be time well spent. Everything is going much better than expected. We win our first game by a lot. We win together.

I get playing time, even playing above some of the upperclassmen. I am by no means a stud, but I am by no means a freshman basketball player. I am by no means a starter, but I am by no means the weakest link. I am experienced, I am confident, I am comfortable. I have not only a team but a second family.

The start of this season was rough when I found out I would be playing with varsity alone. It became increasingly difficult once I knew I was here to stay. I had high expectations as a freshman on varsity and I still do.

I try harder and harder everyday to not just keep up but also be a leader. Although I’m not there yet, I still have three more years ahead of me. My time with the varsity team and coach are no where near over. It’s just beginning. TT

Photo by Kyle Heywood

Tom Tom 02.13.15

17

WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO

GIVE BIRTH

BY DEEANN ANDERSHOCK, MARY EASTON AND KELLY TAYLOR AS TOLD TO MADISON PADDOCK

"Ten fingers. Ten toes. She has all her appendages. Everything looks perfect," the doctor's voice rang out in the midst of all the chaos, and then they laid her on my chest.

I expected to feel the rush of motherly love that is so often talked about right away, so I was absolutely terrified when I didn't. I've had years to think about this moment, but it is still hard to put into words. It wasn't that I didn't love this brand new baby, but I was so terrified and in awe of what just happened, of giving birth to a human, that the whole thing was just surreal.

IT BEGINS

When your water breaks, it comes out gushing, much more than you would ever expect.

SWOOSH. You are instantly freezing, left with your teeth chattering like you're having a seizure, and not to mention completely soaked.

When my water broke, I realized I had never been more humiliated in my whole life.

Then come the contractions.

Let's put it this way, having contractions is like you are a whipped dog. You are already down and then someone hits you again and all you can manage is a whimper.

It's a pain that you can't describe. You are being ripped to the point where you are not even aware you have a rest of the body, besides where the pain is focused.

You can't even breathe.

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THE BIRTH

The actual birth can go one of two ways, a Cesarean section or a vaginal birth.

I can't tell you how many different strangers come and go out of the room while you are having a baby. Even though all the doctors and nurses are extremely kind and comforting, the bottom line is you are still laying there undignified, about to give birth, in a room full of people who you wish would just leave.

With the C-section, they wheel you into the operating room and strip you. Not only are you butt naked and VERY pregnant, but your arms and legs are strapped down to the table, like you are the Crucifix. What a view.

You are completely awake for the whole process, up until they sew you up at the end.

The good thing is, you feel nothing.

I remember I could hear the doctor's scalpel, but I felt completely fine.

The doctors make two cuts, one in your skin and one on the inside to actually take the baby out.

The whole thing seemed short to me, maybe 30 seconds long.

After the baby came out, I looked up at the anesthesiologist and he said, "Goodnight!" and then I was out. At that point, I was ready for it all to be over.

When it comes to a vaginal birth, it is a long and exhausting process.

Once you get numbed with an epidural, you can't feel much pain, but the hours on end of straight pushing is exhausting. I was not

prepared for the amount of energy you have to exert in order to have a baby.

When the baby finally comes out, you feel instantly lighter. It's the weirdest sensation.

A few minutes later, you push the placenta out. It is large and way gross. My doctor showed mine to me like it was an actual baby even though I had no desire to see it, because placentas are disgusting. I wanted it to be disposed of with the rest of the medical waste.

The best part about giving birth? When it is finally over.

THE RECOVERY

Besides a small scar right below the bikini line, the recovery from a C-section is pretty smooth, especially when compared to that of a vaginal birth.

After giving birth vaginally, you are in so much pain that you can't stand up by yourself. The amount of blood that kept coming for a month after I gave birth was ridiculous.

Your nurse actually has to watch you pee to see how much blood fills the toilet. You are swollen and it hurts to even move.

Giving birth is a cruel joke; it is terrifying and undignified in every way. But, having a child is well worth the trauma. Being a mother changes every fiber of who you are, and how you view the world. You will never know how much you can love another person until you have a child.

Nothing ever changed me as much as that. Marriage, new jobs, whatever, nothing changed me like having a child did. TT

Photo by Sam Worden

Tom Tom 02.13.15

19

WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO AND BE

LOVE LOVED

BY ANONYMOUS AS TOLD TO ARLENNE LOZANO

In my days of youth, from picking flowers and playing Go Fish to being taken on dates and crushing on boys, I adopted this absolute mad theory that it is utterly impossible to fall in love. Falling in love is unfeasible.

But I feel it.

I feel loved and I love in return.

I know that love is an action, but nobody can be in love. Just like how nobody can be in jump.

But I also know that it is real and very much alive in my life.

There are contrasting loves in this existence and some of those never perish.

Mine, I know, is unlikely to dwindle or weaken.

LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT

The allurement and charm of it is captivating and spellbinding to say the least. I cannot phantom the words in the best way. Every time I bring it up, I chuckle a little, like right now, because I think it is so unique and scarce that many don’t dare to deem it real. Like I said earlier, however, there are different types of love in this world. Common or uncommon, weak or strong, strange or familiar. Let me put it this way: the way I love my mom is completely different than the way I love this boy.

We met at fairly young ages; he was 17 and I was just peeking through that pre-teen, young adult gap at a lovely 15 years old. I remember our encounter so clearly that every time the memory crosses my mind, I trick myself into falling under the impression that we met just the other weekend.

When we met, I didn’t think anything of it. “He’s cute!” was my first notion. And evidently, the feeling was mutual between the two of us. We attended a party as guests and were complete strangers prior to the festivity.

But that’s what made everything so special.

20 Tom Tom 02.13.15

When we met, something clicked. I could not stop smiling that night. That night was so endearing that I compare it to those cheesy romance movies that air on Lifetime. I told a friend of mine that he caught my eye, and, just like that, she told other friends, including him, and in no time he was bulldozed and hounded by our friends into asking me to dance. I was embarrassingly bashful about it and timidly held hold of his hand as he guided me to the dancefloor. I was so shy, I think I failed to recall any word in the English dictionary. He initiated small-talk and eventually, I eased up. We progressed to chatting non-stop outside the building. As we sat on the stairsteps of a beautiful garden; I omitted the world surrounding me because I was so rapt and enthralled in him. And clearly, that remembrance is still stitched into my mind.

We built a friendship that very night and became Facebook friends, of course. We decided that since I didn’t live in the area, that would be our mean of communication. We kept in touch for a short period of time but drifted off and returned to our own realities.

That’s such a shame.

SECOND GLANCE

Two years darted past and I visited the area again, thinking that we wouldn’t cross paths this time around, but man, was I inaccurate.

We saw each other for the second time and at that exact moment, everything made sense.

That’s when I became conscious of the fact that there was a vital reason behind why recollections of that night, two years ago, would appear in my head at the randomest times, and that reason is because I love this boy and what I experienced was love at first sight.

When I say love, I don’t mean the “allow me to propose to you this very second so we may begin a far more advanced and serious relationship” love; it’s the “I love you as a best

friend... but I’m also crushing on you,” and the "I would do anything for you and never expect a thing in return,” kind of love. I also get this sensational vibe that he feels the same way and yet again, just like the first time we met, the feeling is mutual between the two of us.

This is what I think it feels like to love and be loved. It plays with me emotionally and physically. It’s effects are so dramatic. They reach great heights and continue to surprise me every day. I find myself to be happier, kinder, and more loving with and to whoever I come in contact with.

I smile. A lot.

I have more confidence in myself.

I’m more carefree, but collective. I’m balanced.

Being able to love is a powerful outlet because it changes who I am as a person. Loving and being loved taught me to love others more than I can imagine, and to love myself.

It showed me how to dream and to do anything and everything that I want to.

To do it with confidence, with effort, and to do it for myself.

It’s all the moments that make love so incredible.

It’s being an open-book and completely exposed to him, and feeling nothing but safety and comfort.

It’s being faced with life’s toughest decisions and have him there to support me.

It’s the way he looks at me and smiles or laughs.

The ache in my heart everytime I have to say goodbye.

To this day, I remain close friends with him. I wish our relationship could change into something grander. That takes time and I know that if I lasted two years without seeing or speaking to him, I can wait to see where life decides to take us in the future. TT

Photo by Kyle Heywood

Tom Tom 02.13.15

21

WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO HAVE A

NEAR DEATH EXPERIENCE

BY MARK BOARINI AS TOLD TO JORDAN STATEN

At that moment the sound of the radio blurred out the thoughts in my mind.

Route 83 seemed like a never ending road that determined my fate. The clear night was a precious gift. The people, the cars and the street lights seemed nothing more than witnesses. The thoughts that taunted me as I waited for an impact would not stop for my pleading mind.

At that moment my wife and children had no idea. The worry that filled my body knew the worst was yet to come. The seatbelt seemed as though it was the only hope I had to grasp onto for my life. The seconds dragged on and as well as the wait I was not yet ready to endure.

At that moment as I turned the steering wheel to the right as hard as I possibly could only one thing came to mind, "He's going to hit me."

At that moment, I could do nothing but hope that God would take over. Because if he hadn't I would not be here today.

It was a Friday night. November 14 at 7 p.m. to be exact. I got in the car alone, which was not the original plan. My daughter Katie and my wife Kathy planned on joining me, although I am beyond thankful they hadn't.

Minutes before I stepped foot in the car, Katie made plans and Kathy decided to stay back as well. I was grateful.

It was just a normal day as I headed down the road. The radio was playing and I was at peace with my thoughts. The roads were clear

22 Tom Tom 02.13.15

and I had no idea what the minutes ahead would bring. Little did I know that those few seconds between peace and chaos could be so precious.

The intersection came quicker than I wanted. I didn't see it coming till a few seconds before. All that I could think was to hold on tight. I grabbed the steering wheel and looked for an escape route. The trailer behind me was even more of an obstacle in avoiding my death. All of the sudden, it happened.

Three... Two... One. When I felt the shake of the car, I could not think. My mind stopped as the world around me continued. I kept thinking something was bound to come through my window ending my life. I told myself to keep my eyes open. If nothing else, don't close my eyes. Make sure you know where you are.

The drunk driver that hit my 2009 Tahoe did not take into consideration what he was taking away from me. As he drove straight into the trailer connected to my car, he had no idea of the pain he was about cause me and my loved ones. As my car flipped I knew that this could be it. The shaking of the car, the hard grip I refused to break on the seatbelt, the determination to never close my eyes and the thought of my wife and kids were my motivation to make it out of that car alive. No matter what, that car would not become my grave.

After the car flipped two-and-a-half times, I landed upright. The first voice I heard was

the Onstar woman. She started to talk. I didn't have time to think as she immediately said, "Hello Mark, this is Onstar, are you okay?"

After a few more questions the Onstar rep had for me, she ended with one final question: "Is there anyone you would like me to call?" Of course I had her call my wife. I stayed in the damaged car until the EMTs arrived.

As anyone would be after what I had just experienced, I was pretty shook up. As they led me to the ambulance, they had prevented me from approaching the other vehicle. It turned out that the drunk driver who almost took my life was not hurt badly.

Although things could've ended worse, this accident changed my life. The car that I had once loved was now completely ruined. The trailer that belonged to my father who has passed on was no longer a part of the family after 60 years. I now experience extreme neck pain as a result of the whiplash during the impact. I'd like to look as the crash as an experience, not a regret. I do not regret getting in the car that day. In fact, I got to help my son move a bed into his new apartment. That day did not kill me, it only made me stronger.

I don't think I have any room for forgiveness. At least not yet. I am lucky to be here. I had no control of the fate I was handed, and I am here for a reason. God took me in his hands, and I could not be more thankful for the life I still have. TT

Photo by Mark Boarini

Tom Tom 02.13.15

23

WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO BE THE

NEW KID

BY TYLER STEELE AS TOLD TO NATHAN BORRIES

I cried every single night.

I, a 16 year old teenage boy, cried every single night.

I missed my girlfriend. I missed my friends and I knew they were having fun without me.

I cried because I didn't know anyone. I was lost.

I was the new kid. I was new to everything: this town, these people, everything. I wasn't popular or even cool at my old school. It was a new start to my life and I didn't want it to happen. I was moving 433 miles away and couldn't do anything about it.

THE NEWS

I remember that one night, at the dinner table, where I was broken down to the most vulnerable state in front of my parents than ever before. No, not just my parents, everyone.

The tears started filling my red, stinging eyes.

The frustration and the despair were hiding inside my head behind my jaw-dropped face full of shock. They told me we were moving.

My dad had to find a new job. After two months, he luckily found one. But as good as news like that always is, it was accompanied by the bad news. We had to move to Illinois.

"What the hell is in Illinois?" I thought. I searched online about this little town of Antioch and it looked so boring and crappy compared to my old town. What did my dad get us in to?

It took about seven hours to get to Antioch.

I honestly didn't know what to expect or who I'd meet. Each minute, worry continued to fill my body as we neared my new home. I worried because I didn't know anyone. It would suck to have no friends in high school. There was one thing I knew for sure: I did not want to spend the rest of my time in high school waiting for college.

THE TOWN

I arrive in my neighborhood, moving trucks all around, and that's when it got real.

I have a new home and I have no friends. I

24 Tom Tom 02.13.15

casually looked to my right and left looking at houses surrounding me hoping there would be some, no not "some," just one person who would make the difference. I needed one person to welcome me to Antioch.

My dad had told me later that day that the neighbors, who he apparently was talking to earlier in the day, have a son my age.

I walked up to their door, nervous as ever, to introduce myself. With my palms sweaty and my voice shaky, I told my neighbor if he ever wanted to hang out all he needed to do was to knock on my door.

I am still waiting for that knock.

What did I do wrong? Is everyone going to treat me like this? That one knock I was hoping for killed everything. I laid on my bed, with the familiar tears dripping down my face into my clenched fists. I couldn't do this. Sure, I wasn't popular and didn't have that many friends back in Ohio, but I knew I wasn't a loser. At this point, crying was all I had.

I cried every night. When I wasn't crying, I was talking to my old friends. Then after? I cried. I cried so much there was nothing left.

I dried my eyes out leaving them swollen and red for days.

Then came orientation day.

It wasn't a knock, it was a handshake and a "hey." Someone finally welcomed me to this new town I had to call home. I met a few new people there and that gave me a boost of confidence awaiting my first day of school.

THE FIRST DAY

After a sleepless night, I still couldn't believe I wouldn't see my best friends walking through the halls. My stomach was turning and I didn't want to go. I only knew a handful of people and they weren't even in all of my classes. I was dreading meeting new people and just wanted to get through the day without getting made fun of.

I didn’t get made fun of or teased. It was quite the opposite.

I was the center of attention and I loved it. The girls were drooling all over me. They were following me everywhere and it was different. Nobody ever paid that much attention to me before. I took advantage of it. I took too much advantage of it.

I was being noticed for the first time in my life. People were coming up to me instead of me approaching them. And day by day, it added up. It added up to the change in me that I became oblivious to. I was carrying myself in a new way. It was a cocky, "I'm better than you," way. All it took was one reflection, in one mirror, to see what I had become.

The center of attention went to my head.

Within a week, I went from being loved by everyone to being a cocky, SOB being pointed at and being avoided. I really didn't know what to do. I wanted to punch that mirror into pieces, just like my confidence had become.

The dripping of wet, salty tears continued to tap at my wrists. This was supposed to be my new start and I already screwed up.

I slowly picked up the pieces and tried to glue them together. And before I knew it, I was me again. I was becoming a real person again.

During the first week of school, the reality never caught up to me. Then, I looked around and just started comparing everything around me to back home.

When it comes down to it, being the new kid is good, but more of a bad thing. People noticed me. It was a good thing.

"Look, he's so hot."

"Look, he's so smart."

"Look, he's so funny."

But when they paid too much attention it affected me for the worse. Messing up a few times made people hate me.

I told myself something that I started to live my life by that second week of school. I didn't just want to get through it, I wanted to have fun doing it. TT

Photo by Kyle Heywood

Tom Tom 02.13.15

25

WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO

OVERCOME CANCER

BY HOWARD CITRON AS TOLD TO MADELYNN SOBERANO

They made an incision in my left hip.

Laying there on the raw steel table, my leg cut open. The doctor would take a sample of my bone and walk away to study it under the microscope. Studying it right then and there, determining if I had cancer. My eyelids became heavy and each blink slower. I was slowly starting to fall unconscious. The doctor walked towards me, colors around the room began to blend and everything turned hazy before going dark.

I woke up getting wheeled out of the hospital in South Florida. As I was getting pushed through the longing hallway, I started regaining consciousness. The recovery room was filled with dim-lighted fluorescent lights, my mom was sitting across from me with a grin.

“Your results came back benign. No Cancer!”

Benign. Ease swarmed my body as I let the drugs they gave me take over. The rest of the procedure happend when I was unconscious.

They drilled the bone out, filled it with a bone graft and placed a titanium plate in my left hip. They told me that the pain should go away in a few months. It never did.

The time started to tick on. Six months.

Seven months. The pain was still there. By eight months the pain was worse than it ever was before. I went to my doctor for a check up. They performed a CT scan on me that day and had me sit in the examination room waiting for the results. The doctor held my results in his hands, right there. The results that determined something bigger. He held the CT up to the light and revealed what had been hurting me since I was 13. A tumor. A tumor that kept growing and growing for seven years. It wasn’t benign at all, but malignant.

I was only 24. Twenty-four years old and I had cancer. They misdiagnosed me eight months earlier. The limp that I had developed overtime was the tumor cracking through my bone and tissue. Through my femur. I was diagnosed with osteosarcoma. I accepted the fact that I had cancer, the fact that having cancer was outside of my control, but I knew that there was a challenge in front of me and decided to take action right away.

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Before anything could be done, I had to go through chemotherapy and reduce the size of the tumor. Chemo was a beast all unto its own.

Some days were bad, real bad, others weren’t.

A total of 12 months and 19 rounds of chemo.

Each treatment involved at least four days in the hospital, and one specific drug required my presence back-to-back weeks. Of course, with my least favorite of my three chemo meds. This was, and still is, considered a very heavy protocol. Considering that the tumor had most likely been in my leg since I was 13, and unencapsulated during the misdiagnosis, it was quite advanced. Stage three to be precise.

There are a number of side effects that come along with the cancer party. First, the nausea, possibly the most famous of the chemo effects and there is no question that I had a great deal of it. The other big side effect was, to my dismay, hair loss. My long, luscious locks (believe it or not) were gone; long ago in the days prior to this fantastic beard.

Eyebrows, gone. Leg and arm hair, gone.

Gone. Gone. Gone. It was all gone.

There are more undesirable effects to chemo that include a terrible sore throat, body aches and horrible nightmares. Describing these “dreams” is really only possible to people who have gone through it. I always called it chemo-brain. There is no question though, that this first big surgery was a real challenge.

My surgery was major. A hip and femur resection. They put me back on that familiar steel table and put me under anesthesia.

They cut my femur and removed it from my leg. The hip followed shortly. Around three quarters of all the other stuff in my leg was removed, the muscle, the tissue, everything.

By the time the tumor was removed, it was the size of a football. A metal hip and femur took its place. They sewed me back up and the rehabilitation would begin, but within two weeks, my hip became dislocated. I was put in for another surgery to have the hip put back. After that, I developed MRSA. I was unable to start chemo until the infection went away. After six weeks of infections and treatment, I was able to start my post-surgical

chemo. After the surgeries, the infections, the obstacles, I began the healing process. One year. Nineteen chemo treatments.

When I found out I had cancer, my wife and I had been dating for a year and a half.

I was fortunate enough to have friends and family that gave me unconditional love and support. My grandparents were good with money and I did not have to worry about expenses. The only thing I had to focus on was beating this and to do whatever the doctors told me what to do. My parents divorced at 11, getting child support from my dad was always a long-going problem, but when I became sick, it actually brought them together again as friends. My stepmom took care of me for four months before my wife moved to South Florida. My wife, girlfriend at the time, was incredible. If I called her at 4 a.m. that I needed popsicles, she would drive back to the hospital before going to work or school.

Everyone went way above and beyond.

I remember missing the call from my doctor telling me about my results from an MRI earlier that day after my first checkup. I called back, but he was in surgery. The nurse called me and I was uneasy and fidgeting with everything around me. She told me something that I will forever remember.

“Don’t worry about something until the doctor gives you something to worry about.”

That comment stuck with me years later. I worked myself up over nothing because the next day the doctor called back saying I was cancer free.

After my surgery, I moved back up to Illinois to connect with my cousins, aunts and uncles. I married my wife, had one son, and just had another baby last week. The experience gave me the belief that I could do anything. That I could beat anything. It removed any fear that I had; it changed the way I could accomplish things. I survived a 50/50 chance of living past five years and have long surpassed that expiration date. My last chemo treatment was in July 2006 and major surgery was May 2008. I now have annual checkups and have been cancer free for nearly ten years. TT

Photo by Johnny Horton

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WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO BE

PREGNANT

IN HIGH SCHOOL

BY ANGIE KOCH AS TOLD TO PAIGE GRUBER

A typical day for a teenage girl may consist of going to high school, chatting with friends and maybe catching the latest movie that night with her boyfriend.

But for Angelina Koch, not everyday is the same. Koch's life took a turn her senior year while attending Antioch Community High School. Today, she is the mother of a baby boy, Easton.

When I found out I was pregnant, I cried. I was speechless.

Thousands of thoughts and questions darted through my mind: college, my career, my relationship. Everything.

Too devastated to function, the father of my son asked me what I wanted to do. But in that moment, all I could do was cry. This was something I definitely didn't want to go through alone; I needed for him not to leave me. I wiped off my tears and found an OB and made an appointment right away to make sure the baby was healthy.

I kept my discovery away from my parents until I was about six months pregnant.

When I told my stepmother, I did it in public to avoid seeing her furious and hearing her yell. At this point, my heart was pounding. I managed to work up the courage to utter out the truth. After I told her, it was not until I saw her tear up that I much rather have had her yell at me than to her cry.

That evening, she told my father while I was at work.

When I walked inside, I was greeted with

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a hug from my sobbing father. I knew how much I had hurt him, so I cried with him. I have never felt like such a disappointment to my parents before. Except, they weren't all that disappointed. They just thought it would never happen to me, but yet again, neither did I. School turned out to not be as bad as I thought. I was treated pretty fairly. The students were polite as well as the staff. There, of course, were those students who stared, trying to not make it obvious. But I knew, and I kept my head held high. And even when I began to show they remained kind to me.

People would put their hands on my stomach in hopes of my baby to kick for them. This never failed to make me smile. I appreciated being surrounded with good people and good friends who were already trying to be apart of my son's life. Everyone made me feel loved, from the students to the staff. I even developed a special bond with my counselor and gym teachers.

On February 25, 2014, Easton was born.

It was breathtaking. You know, for nine months you contemplate all of these things about your baby. What they are going to look like, who they are going to look like, everything. Well, he was perfect. He was so much more than I could ever imagine or try to imagine.

I knew my whole world has changed. I knew that he was my purpose for living on that day, in that moment. When I held him for the very first time, I promised him to be

nothing but the best mom I can be. I promised to make sure he has everything he will ever need.

After a while, my relationship with Easton’s father took a whole 180. I moved in with him so we could co-parent. And to be honest, it was good. Then when Easton arrived, we became slowly irritated at one another, as well as being together all the time.

And despite the fact the he would be at work and I eventually got a job, it was still like we never had our own space. And for a 17 and 19 year old, you need your space at times.

Just recently, he and I ended things. Focusing so much on trying to be the best parents for our baby, it was hard to make time for us.

Time to actually be a couple. We still talk and keep things civil with one another, but we both agreed that before we can be a true family, we needed to work on our relationship. A family starts with parents.

Being young parents is without a doubt hard. Everything changes, your entire world changes. It's not easy. TT If you or someone you know is currently a pregnant teenager, do not hesitate to talk to an adult—parents, family, teachers, administrators or counselors. Planned Parenthood Helpline is available 24 hours if you are struggling and need to speak to someone.

Call (800) 230-PLAN or (800) 230-7526 reach the hotline. Other organizations offer similar services and can be found by a quick online search.

Photo by Johnny Horton

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WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO

SAVE A LIFE

BY MARIANNE PEISTRUP, KERRY MCWILLIAMS, JAMIE WHITE AND CAPTAIN ANDREW PLOSKNI AS TOLD TO DAN MEADE

Sirens wailing, people sprinting towards the door.

A fire nearby needs to be tamed.

One minute: the expected time to be ready and speeding down the road in full gear ready to fight a fire.

From mid-sleep to a full out sprint, I’m in a mad dash to save a life.

The life of a firefighter isn't the life for everyone. It's demanding, time consuming and incredibly taxing on the body and mind.

With all of the calls and opportunities to help someone in need, not all moments are seized.

Analyzing each call gone bad only tear me down and eventually lead to rupturing my breaking point. My hardships are often coped by laughter and jokes commonly distributed throughout the station. Without it, one can not mentally survive. It doesn't take very long to see who is cut out to survive in this workforce; the workforce of saving lives and putting one's own life at risk to save others. The job of a firefighter.

Every kid dreams to be one, but very few obtain the title. I had that dream. It's not easy, and those who do possess the dream most definitely do not view themselves as fulfilling the label: a hero.

In the eyes of a firefighter, it's just another day in the office. Knowing someone's life goes on thanks to the help of another is an amazing feeling to an ordinary civilian, but for a firefighter, it's what I signed up for.

Bonds are created like no other at the station. The word coworker doesn't exist here.

Family does.

12:30 A.M.

After a long, busy day of calls I finally get to rest my head. Some days, like today, are jam packed with calls, while others are slow.

I sit, anticipating a call at any second. Oh, my bed, how I've missed you so much. My bed

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has never felt more comfortable and feels as if it was designed just for me. Finally, I get to catch some shut eye, trying not to think of today's calls. Can't analyze it, all apart of the job I tell myself.

2:45 A.M.

WEEEE-000 WEEEE-ooo I'm up, disregarding the amount of sleep I didn’t get. I'm jumping out of bed simultaneously with the rest of the crew. Everyone, listening to the call, makes a quick adjustment to being awake and takes off to the rig.

This is not my first rodeo. Right out the door to my left is all my gear. I quickly throw on everything and I'm ready to go. I look down at my watch. Fifty three seconds, not too shabby. It's not very long until we're all on the rig and pulling out of the station. I know this firetruck along with all the others like the back of my hand. Everyday we check them.

I've memorized them inside and out.

Hot out the gates and ready for action.

I hear over the call that there is a fire and a 13-year-old girl is still inside the house. I'm familiar with the address and know it's right across town. I don't care what time of day it is. There is no better feeling than having that adrenaline rush through you while speeding down the road with the sirens blaring. As we finally are approaching, I see an ambulance pull up as well.

As quick as my crew and I jumped on the rig, we are just as fast and eager to jump off. I hit the ground running.

Back in training, there was no instructor that can fully prepare you for the situations you'll face on calls. There's no rule book thats says, "Okay, this is how fires will go, here is step A followed by step B." No. Every situation is different and you can only be supplied with the right knowledge and tools to work with during a fire. You have

to think on your feet. Anything, absolutely anything, can happen.

While running in, the mother of the teen said she is in her room; the second door on the left through the hallway. Instantly from there, the captain and I charge through the door. By this time, the fire is building up and we have to be quick. If we don't find the girl in time, the stifling smoke could go into her lungs and burn her from the inside out, thus bringing her heart to a screeching halt.

Seeing the fire spreading from the kitchen with smoke surrounding us, we act fast. As we maneuver our way into her room, we see her, laying on the floor covering her mouth with a blanket, coughing. We are quick to carry her and move her out of the house. As soon as we get outside, the medics come over. It's easy to see she's having trouble breathing.

It's all protocol now.

The medics see she is having an anxiety attack and her heart is speeding up. "When we give you this medicine we are going to stop your heart and get it going again so your heartbeat gets back to normal." Anyone would be scared by those words. She looks at me and grabs my hand for comfort. I'm more than welcome to hold her back.

Her heart flatlined for a second.

Before you know it, she's right back with us, normal heartbeat and all.

Back to the station. Time to catch up on that sleep. It's a good feeling knowing she is still here with us today because of our help.

The most rewarding feeling was when I saw her again the following week visiting the station with a thank you note. That feeling is why I love this job. It will forever be hung up on my wall, but at the end of the day, it's all a part of the job. TT

Photo by Jon Unick

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WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO BE IN A

SKIING ACCIDENT

BY JIM HELLEN AS TOLD TO NICHOLAS DOROSAN

You can’t let an accident be a defining moment of your life.

THE ACCIDENT

It was just a normal day in Vail, Colorado, spring break 2012. This was my 49th consecutive season of skiing.

I was with my wife and two kids. It was the last day on the mountain until we would head back home and it was the last run down before lunch.

I was skiing on a pair of my Salomon Screams and this was the last season I was going to ski them, so they were pretty shot, but I’m not blaming the skis for what happened next.

I was just cruising down to lunch, nothing too crazy. There wasn’t really anything on my mind; I wasn’t distracted, maybe I was thinking about what I was going to have for lunch.

Then I made a turn I’ve made over 500,000 times. A second later I’m in the air.

CRUNCH. I’m on the ground.

My first thought was that I got a hip pointer, which I’ve gotten from sports in the past.

But then I realized it couldn’t be that, because it was just, RIP YOUR HEAD OFF excruciating pain.

I thought, “maybe it’s just dislocated.” I stood up on one leg with help from a ski pole and I sort of tried to turn my hip into place.

But then all I heard was a bunch of crunching noises. It sounded like crunching potato chips, accompanied by torture and agonizing pain.

I knew it wasn’t dislocated.

I had tried to put the ski back on to see if I could just make it down, but there was no way.

My leg was like rubber.

My wife and kids were filled with concern.

My wife tried not to show how worried she was and my children held back their tears.

My kids have always looked up to me as this amazing skier and I was surely one of the most experienced skiers on the mountain. So, when I went down, my children didn’t know what to think.

It would take about fifteen minutes for my wife and kids to get back with ski patrol. I was bordering in and out of shock, and, being an Eagle Scout, I am well trained in first aid, so I knew what was going on. I knew not to start crying or start screaming, because once

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you do that, you start hyperventilating.

Stay calm and stay focused; find something to focus on. I kept putting snow on my face, trying to stay as calm as I could. FOCUS. Focus on anything except the pain.

It was the determination. The strength of will to say, I’m not gonna lose it until it’s time. And I waited.

And I waited.

And I waited.

I thought, “God… this is really hard.” You get woozy and start sweating, your pulse is racing, you feel like you’re gonna pass out.

But I still had to interact with my family; I still had to interact with the ski patrol. I had to answer the same question over and over again.

“Where does this hurt? Where does that hurt?”

The ski patrol couldn’t believe how alert I was. They were just looking at me like, “You’re still conscious?”

They were very cautious making sure of two things: it wasn’t a compound fracture and when my leg had shattered, that I didn’t rupture an artery and wasn’t bleeding to death internally. If that would’ve been the case I would’ve been helivaced off the mountain.

I did not make it to the bottom of the hill.

I stayed conscious until I didn’t have to stay conscious anymore.

I kept it together until I was on the sled, or meat wagon, and out of sight from my kids.

Then I just let go and I was done. I could just feel it and I just thought, okay, I am now going to go into shock. I had done everything that I had needed to do, give closure, hug my kids, kiss my wife. Then I went down, and three to four turns… I was out.

THE RECOVERY

It was a little under two hours between when I was unconscious and put into surgery.

I broke my femur… A bone in your body that should never break. My surgeon had mentioned to my wife that my femur looked like I was either hit by a train or shot with a gun. And so I had surgery.

I was in the hospital for three days. As soon as I could be mobile enough to use the restroom the hospital kicked me out. They suggested that I stay about two to three days in a motel. About five days after the accident, they flew me back home.

That was the beginning of bed rest.

My recovery consisted of two months of bed rest, about a month in a wheelchair and two months on crutches. I had to undergo therapy to get my muscles to work. Not to mention I was in chronic pain through the duration of my recovery.

My family was very supportive during my recovery. My wife was very helpful; my kids were very tolerant because it was a very difficult time. It was hard for them because Dad couldn’t do anything for almost a year.

The most difficult part of the recovery was that I had just gotten the nod to perform at the Chicago Blues Festival that June in the Blues Harmonica Showcase. There was no way I was going to turn it down. It was the apex of my musical career. That was my driving force to rehab. I used that blues festival to focus and make sure I was prepared; physically and mentally. It was the light at the end of the tunnel.

I was on crutches when the festival rolled around; I definitely should have still been in the wheelchair if it weren’t for that experience. Before I got up on stage I just sucked it up and I did it.

I’d say unquestionably that there’s a sense of posttraumatic stress. It comes back in a dream occasionally. Some people have recurring dreams, and replaying the accident is mine. I dream it in slow motion. Not as much now as when it first happened, but it does still happen. It tends to happen before I go skiing, and yes, it does shake me. But I can’t control it; your dreams are your subconscious.

I had used the cane up until that next season. That being said, the following year (2013), on Casimir Pulaski day, I went skiing for one day so that I could keep my streak alive. Fifty years. I certainly did not want to start a streak over.

I still tell people, “if you fall off the horse, you get back on it.” You have to show the kids that you can’t just give up on something you’re passionate about. That’s why I got back up on my skis that season. I wanted to prove that it’s a lifelong commitment and you just don’t give up on stuff like that.

Since the accident, my family and I went to the Grand Canyon, we’ve hiked the Tetons, we’ve gone to Yellowstone, and we’ve explored Canada. I’ve traveled. I’ve skied. I’ve had fun. I haven’t given up on myself or my commitments. You can’t let an accident be a defining moment of your life. TT

Photo Courtesy Jim Hellen

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WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO BE

TRANSGENDER

BY MAX KLAW AS TOLD TO JESSICA GUZMAN

Most people wake up everyday knowing who they are: their name, their friends, their gender. The simple things. Six years ago I used to wake up everyday unsure about these things, something seemingly as simple as my own identity. I used to wake up as Megan. I used to wake up everyday as a girl, and that didn’t feel right.

There was a type of discomfort being in my own skin. I would ask myself, “Why was I born in this body?” Growing up I was looked at as a typical tomboy, which made me different from everyone else, and because of that I was bullied. I just wanted to be myself, but waking up as Megan, I didn’t know who I really was.

At first there was a lot of confusion. I thought I could be gay, which at first made me homophobic when talking to other gay people. Looking back at it now, I wish I wasn’t so scared to open up because these people would be the people I am most comfortable around. After watching an episode of the “Tyra Show” featuring a transgender person, I then realized there were other people in the world that felt the same as I did.

I took steps toward being a transgender little by little in the beginning. I told a small group of friends to start calling me Max instead of Megan. Though there were many fears of rejection in the back of my mind, being called Max made things a lot easier.

However, I had not officially come out to my parents, which was a major problem.

When I had come out to my parents it was on accident when I left out my signed syllabus with the name Max and not Megan on it.

My parents were shocked at first with who this Max person was. My mom tried to tell me it was only a phase and with some ther-

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apy it could help me get through what was going on. The therapy I needed wasn’t to get through a phase; it was to help me get through the life-changing decision I made.

What most people don’t understand about transgender people is that becoming a transgender was not a choice, it was who I was meant to be. I am still the same person, and after making the decision to be transgender I became a better person. I was finally at peace with myself. Some people can lose everything when coming out, such as their family and friends. It felt so good to bring the walls down that I had previously built up, to overcome the thought of suicide when I thought there was no hope. Luckily, I got my chance to come out to my family and friends and they accepted and supported my decision.

By learning more about the transgender community I learned a lot more about myself. Going through the process of being a transgender is more than just a label. Many people had different opinions, and while I accept those opinions, I learned not to care so much about what other people thought of me.

If someone was uncomfortable it was more their problem than mine, because I loved the new person I was becoming. Being called a boy was right, even though it was a little awkward coming about these changes. Every change was a step forward to a new version of myself.

I have to take hormones, which is like going through second puberty. It is scary, yet exciting. I noticed little things like the hair on my body and the deepness of my voice.

In other countries people don’t get to change their sex because it is looked at as an illness.

In other cases, it takes much longer for the process to even start. I notice how fortunate

I am to change into the person I want to be.

Now, legally, I am named Max, and as I get older the process of being transgender is easier. Going through these changes made me a stronger person that helped me overcome difficult parts in my life.

Through it all I have grown so much as a person. High school is a time to find yourself instead of conforming to society’s standards, and I found out the person I wanted to be. In high school I helped co-found the Rainbow Alliance, a safe place for LGBT students who need support. Being a part of it is a time to forget and to be around people who won’t judge.

Many times people asked me if I could go back and change who I was, would I do it?

I always answer no. Because of this journey I have met so many amazing people and it has opened my eyes to new things. I am now more accepting towards other people that aren’t prejudice against who I am. I can now be the person I was meant to be from the start, I just didn’t know it all that time. I feel safer with the person I am and can finally be called a boy, just with some assembly required. TT If you or someone you know is currently struggling with sexuality or gender issues and is seeking help, do not hesitate to talk to an adult—parents, family, teachers, administrators or counselors. The GLBT National Help Center has a hotline available Monday-Friday if you are struggling and need to speak to someone. Call 1-888-THE-GLNH (1-888-843-4564) to reach the hotline. Other organizations offer similar services and can be found by a quick online search.

Photo by Kyle Heywood

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