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Diary 138 The giving tree: Crackhead parents Dear Diary, Oh my God, it's gone! I can't believe that my “Someone Special” gold charm has disappeared. I knew I had it on when I went to sleep. At first, I panicked. Then I frantically searched through my covers and looked under the bed. Finally, I...

Diary 138 The giving tree: Crackhead parents Dear Diary, Oh my God, it's gone! I can't believe that my “Someone Special” gold charm has disappeared. I knew I had it on when I went to sleep. At first, I panicked. Then I frantically searched through my covers and looked under the bed. Finally, I realized that my parents took it. How could they just take it off my body like that? They promised me that they wouldn't steal from me again. I forgave them for pawning my Nintendo, TV, and VCR. But how can I forgive them for stealing the most precious gift that they ever bought me? How could they steal something that meant so much to me? How could they steal from their own child? Nothing has been the same since my parents started smoking crack. The house is always filled with the smell of stale, burnt cocaine. The odor is left behind in the pores of their skin. So when I go to give them a hug, the smell still lingers. I hate seeing their eyes all big and bulging, their bodies twitching like a fish out of water. After watching them hit the pipe like there is no tomorrow, I know that they have a serious problem. Getting high is their daily routine. It is like they don't care if they have children or not. All they really care about is feeding their urge for drugs. Because of their behavior, I sometimes starve. There is never enough food. I try to study and do my homework to keep my mind off the food shortage, but the sound of my stomach growling doesn't help. I'll go to watch TV and all of a sudden the lights will cut off. I'll go to find the power switch, but it's not the power; it's because my parents didn’t pay the bill. We are always behind on our car payments and rent, too. I once brought a friend home after school, and there was an eviction notice on the door. I was the laughingstock of the neighborhood. When I was younger, they would lock me up in the closet because they wanted to get high and beat up on each other. One day it got so bad that my father smashed my mother’s head in between the cough and the wall. I became so used to being in the closet that I put snacks in there and a mini TV to watch. All I could hear on the other side was screaming and yelling. I felt as if there was a war between my parents and the drugs. Of course, the drugs were winning. Being in the closet was my only escape. I felt like Anne Frank in her attic, except the Nazis were roaming outside, and my parents were outside the closet door. Even though the closet was my safe haven, I never felt completely comfortable inside it. I always wanted to be set free. I felt as if they would forget that I was in there. I can’t believe it's a few days before my graduation and they’re still taking drugs! They don’t understand. When is it going to stop? My parents took more from me than they ever gave to me. It’s like they had no conscience. Unfortunately, there are people who are like my parents, who shamelessly take from others with no remorse, but I will break that cycle and be a giver. I realized that I am like Shel Silverstein’s The Giving Tree and my parents are stealing all my apples. Soon there will be nothing left for me to give. I know that tomorrow they will do it again, getting high from my gold charm. Now I see what is really special to them – the drugs, instead of me.