The Privilege of Youth: A Teenager's Story of Longing for Acceptance and Friendship - Softcover

Pelzer, Dave

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0452286298 ISBN 13: 9780452286290

Verlag: Penguin Publishing Group, 2004

Inhaltsangabe

The #1 New York Times and #1 internationally bestselling author who is a shining example of what overcoming adversity really means now shares the lost chapter of his uplifting journey, which has touched the lives of millions. 

From A Child Called “It” to The Lost Boy, from A Man Named Dave to Help Yourself, Dave Pelzer’s inspirational books have helped countless others triumph over hardship and misfortune. In The Privilege of Youth, he shares the missing chapter of his life: as a boy on the threshold of adulthood. With sensitivity and insight, he recounts the relentless taunting he endured from bullies; but he also describes the thrill of making his first real friends—some of whom he still shares close relationships with today. He writes about the simple pleasures of exploring his neighborhood, while trying to forget the hell waiting for him at home.

From high school to a world beyond the four walls that were his prison for so many years, The Privilege of Youth bravely and compassionately charts this crucial turning point in Dave Pelzer’s life and will inspire a whole new generation of readers.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Dave Pelzer is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of A Child Called “It", The Lost Boy, A Man Named Dave, Help Yourself, and The Privilege of Youth. He travels more than 250 days a year throughout the nation speaking to large groups of youth and adults on the topics of resilience and overcoming obstacles. He has appeared on the Oprah Winfrey Show, Larry King Live, and The Montel Williams Show, among other national shows.
www.davepelzer.com

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A Good Man’s Departure

April 21, 1999, 2:35 a.m.—It’s been a long four days. In the last ninety-six hours I’ve crisscrossed the country, traveling to five states, and have only been able to steal seven hours of sleep. I pride myself on a strong work ethic, but now my body is on the verge of collapse. What began as a slight quiver last week has now become an uncontrollable seizure of my right hand. I’ve been able to hide it in public by casually placing one hand on top of the other or making a tight fist behind my back until the tremors pass. But now in the nearly freezing weather of Northern Ohio, for the life of me I cannot steady my hand so I can insert the stupid key into the doorknob of my motel room. After three attempts my patience erodes to the point that I begin mumbling a string of off-color language to the howling wind. Huffing, I slide off my computer case, which contains my hefty laptop, and my worn overstuffed satchel from my left shoulder. Steadying myself, my left hand gently clutches my right one just below the wrist and, after another few stabs with the gold-colored key, I’m finally able to fling open the door to my humble room.

I’ve been on the road for twenty-one days, with another twenty-three days to go before I can catch a glimmer of my fiancée’s face, capture the fragrance from her long auburn hair, let alone hold her by my side in the middle of the night. Looking up at the darkened sky I search to find the North Star, knowing that my teenage son, Stephen, is somewhere on the other side of the country in the middle of a deep slumber. He’s about to begin baseball season. How I love to watch that boy play. I can visualize the countless times Stephen would be up at bat, and how I would stand behind the batting cage as if I were him, a child, living an endless stream of days filled with wonder. I’d dissect the grip on Stephen’s blue-colored bat and how he would twirl it in the air like a helicopter, his body positioned to hit, and the way he’d shake his little butt. I’d always burst with excitement whenever I heard the distinctive crack from the bat as the baseball sailed deep into the lush green field. I never really had the chance to play baseball as a kid. My thoughts begin to escape me, but I instantly slam that door shut. The intensity of my career coupled with my self-imposed mental compartmentalization is protection for me. I do so by remaining rigidly focused when out on the road. I know from past brief lapses that if I let down my guard for even a few moments, I will cry a river of tears from missing those I love. I also place a great deal of responsibility on myself that borders at times on anxiety—worrying about oversleeping or missing a flight, driving hundreds of miles in the middle of the night with bewildering, mind-numbing directions, or my biggest fear of not “being there” and not giving my absolute best to so many folks who invite me into their communities and organizations.

April is Child Abuse Prevention Awareness month and I dedicate myself to this cause by traveling from one end of the country to the other, working with teens and adults to help them focus on harvesting their inner strength to overcome a horrendous past, praising those who protect and work with those at risk, and providing all-day workshops on the psychology and resilience of this subject. Today my day began at three in the morning, taping a few radio interviews over the phone, before studying for my eight-hour workshop. Then with the program completed, books signed, and encouragement offered to those struggling with difficult situations, I raced to the airport, completely exhausted, changed clothes in the confines of the airport bathroom stall, and hopped on a plane, arriving just in time to speak at a fund-raiser for a local Boys & Girls club, before catching my final flight of the day in order to start all over again and drive somewhere in the middle of Northern Ohio. As always, when my adrenaline fades it’s instantly replaced with a crushing force of exhaustion. At least now, whenever I make my midnight trek, I have sense enough to drive with the air conditioner on, the windows rolled down, and the voice of a local radio talk show host ranting at full volume. Being on the road over two hundred days a year, I have an intense fear of falling asleep behind the wheel ... again. The last time I nodded off, God must have been watching over me. At full speed and with me dead to the world my rental car crossed the median. I awoke just in time to gaze up at what looked like a pair of headlights belonging to some gigantic UFO about to make contact with my car. Through sheer luck and stupidity, I mashed down on the accelerator, missing the semi truck just enough that the car shook from its wake, while I emptied my lungs chanting, “Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God!”

Before closing the door of my room, I look at the car and smile. After heaving my two mammoth-sized travel bags on the bed, I survey my home for the next few hours: a clean, pine-scented setting, a small worn bed, a fresh set of towels, and a phone. I can’t ask for anything more, except for a working heater ... which refuses to do anything but pump in air that is somehow colder than outside. I’m too tired to care so I simply give up. Anyway, I tell myself that by the time the room warms up, I would have already taken a quick nap, showered, shaved, repacked, and would be on my way to work. After unpacking, I sit on the edge of the bed then notice the telephone’s blinking orange light. I figure it’s probably my sponsor, who’s being courteous, to invite me out to dinner.

Dinner. Food. Sleep. For me these are luxuries I can rarely afford. I am always in a frantic state whenever I speak in front of an audience, to the point that I cannot keep anything down. I try to hide my fear, but there have been occasions when my clients who set up the programs can see my apprehension that sometimes brims to the surface. Then, when I fly out again, for some reason my stomach is still in knots. The only solution: I rarely eat. At least yesterday I was able to gulp down some o.j. between my two morning radio shows. Only after I am through for the day, which can be late into the evening, do I reward myself by roaming through the empty streets, searching for a bite to eat. On rare occasions I actually indulge myself with a real sit-down dinner. And when I do, I savor every bite of every morsel. For me, hunger is another switch I’m able to turn off at will. It’s a trick I learned many, many years ago.

I know in my heart that I have the most honorable motives for my oddities. I have a revolting past that at times still terrifies me to the core. But yet every day I have to crawl back into the darkest recesses of my former life for the sole purpose of qualifying my message. I usually need to “go there” three, four, five times a day, or more, pouring out my soul, exposing every fiber of my being, in the vain hope of encouraging and praising others. Since the birth of my son, I woke up to some of the atrocities around me and decided to make a difference, as so many other individuals did for me years ago. Those two primary reasons are why I push myself. If it wasn’t for the invaluable assistance of others, I was destined to be doomed.

With the two fluffed pillows I jammed behind my lower back, I snatch a file and scrutinize every piece of information I can digest for today’s first program. I pride myself on knowing my presentation backward and forward yet being completely spontaneous, so I can give the program without the aid of a single note. I make a quick mental note that my day will begin with my first radio interview—which is less than two hours from now—and my last program...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: Penguin Publishing Group
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2004
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 0452286298
• ISBN 13: 9780452286290
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Anzahl der Seiten: 241
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: Buchbär; info@buchbaer.de; ; Weberstr. 67; Osnabrück; 49084; Deutschland