Chapter Thirteen
Houseboats
One of the last excursions of the summer, before it was time to move away to college, was the annual houseboat trip to Lake Mojave. Two weeks before the trip, Kelly pulled me aside after church and said she’d chosen me to be a student on her boat.
“Great!” I said. “Who else is on our boat?” Then I clarified, “Who’s the guy leader?”
“Paul is my co-leader.”
I was so excited, I started jumping up and down.
I would live, cook, sleep, swim, sing, and pray with Kelly and Paul for six days. It was too good to be true. It was perfect. I knew that God had a hand in this arrangement.
I plucked my eyebrows a few nights before the houseboat trip, and when my mom saw me the next morning, she said, “What did you do? You plucked too much. You look evil.”
Now, I knew deep down that I did not look evil. I had plucked them the same way the models in the magazines had plucked theirs. It was the style to have high-arching, skinny eyebrows. But my mom’s words had such power over me, and no matter how I played with the comment in my mind, I could not shake the insult. I felt defeated. Here I was, a few days before the trip where I would live with Paul for a week, and I looked evil. I had ruined my face, and I could not change it back.
Fine, I thought, as I stared at my sad face in the mirror. I’ll just kill myself.
I had never been serious about that thought before. But for the first time I actually thought I would do it.
After everyone was asleep, I crept downstairs and chose a sharp knife from the kitchen drawer, wrapped it in a dishtowel, and brought it upstairs to my bedroom. I unwrapped the knife when I was safely behind my bedroom door. It looked so small and measly for such a ponderous job. I positioned myself on my bed and toyed with the idea, pretending to run the thing across my wrist. That was how they did it in the movies, right? In the bathtub?
The image in my mind was of a woman in a horror film lying naked in a bathtub, her wrists spraying blood all over the walls of the shower. It made me sick inside. Was that really what would happen? It was such an empty, twisted place to be.
Jesus must have intervened. Suddenly, I came to my senses. Because of my eyebrows? Just to teach my mom to watch her mouth?
I stepped outside of myself and looked at what I was doing. It was no longer appealing. In fact, it was absurd. I wrapped the knife in the towel again and brought it back downstairs. No one would ever know what I almost did.
The day of the trip finally arrived. We endured the eight-hour drive in our air-conditioned Greyhound, but the hot, dry air at the lake enveloped us the moment we stepped off the bus.
I had avoided Paul on the bus ride because I wanted him to think I was completely over him. I wanted him to fight to get me back, to struggle to spend time with me the way he had in Mexico. I had decided in my mind that this trip would be a great opportunity to let him know what he was missing: my friendship, laughter, smiles, prayers, and my bare skin.
At the dock, I watched Paul load supplies and luggage onto the houseboat. He shone like a diamond wherever he went. Every person he encountered became energized and joyful. And his tousled hair and sleek skin glistened in the sunlight.
We departed from the dock and headed to our beach destination across the lake. My 12 boat mates and I stood on the front deck, chatted, and ate gummy worms while Paul and Kelly drove the boat. Because it was 110 degrees outside, we stopped periodically and jumped in the lake. The water felt perfect, about 72 degrees, and we couldn’t help but laugh and scream from the joy of swimming.
Back on deck, I dried off, wrapped my legs in my towel, and sat in my beach chair. I began to thank God for the beauty of the place: the view of the coruscating lake and red mountains, the feeling of the wind on my arms and face, the sound of the lapping waves and high school chatter, the smell of our tri-tip dinner on the barbeque. And the physical presence of the sexiest man I had ever met.
I was thrilled.
When we finally reached our cove, the leaders tethered the houseboats to the shore. After dinner we had some free time to swim and play cards before our evening meeting.
Paul was leading worship for the week, along with a group of students who had volunteered to sing. A girl from Burbank High, Carletta, was tagging along. As I watched the group walk together toward the edge of the rocky beach to set up, I noticed an exchange of body language between Carletta and Paul.
“What’s this?” I asked myself, amused. It seemed as if Paul had yet another admirer—even younger than me. Wow.
For the rest of the night I paid extra close attention to her every glance, giggle, and touch while they set up the sound, practiced songs, and gathered the larger group to join them. I watched her strain to concentrate as she worshiped God, and then struggle to contain herself as Paul shared with our group about losing the love of his life, Caroline, and how God had given him a new hope and a new understanding of true love. She sat up straight and smiled as if she knew something no one else knew. Strangely, I felt what she felt. I knew what she was going through, and I had to laugh—not at her, but at myself for being just like her. I was just another young girl at his beck and call.
Then, to my utter frustration, he closed the meeting by playing the song “Brown Eyed Girl.”
I felt betrayed as he looked down at his guitar and sang. I wanted him to look at me and acknowledge, yes, this was our song—and yes, he meant it for me.
He went through the lyrics with a smile, not one glance in my direction. Instead, he looked at Jeff and Carletta, smiled, and looked back at his guitar.
Tears filled my eyes. Was he serious? Did he have no misgivings about choosing that song?
Oh, God, take this away from me! I don’t want to be bitter! I don’t want to be lovesick! Jesus!
After the closing prayer, I walked back to my boat by myself, staring down at the beam from my flashlight.
“Hey, Miriam,” I heard Kelly call from behind me. “Wait up.”
As we walked side by side, I began to loosen up. Her easygoingness always helped me remember to breathe.
“You OK?” she asked.
“Yes!” I assured her. “I just have a lot on my mind.”
“Is it about Wyatt?”
“How did you know?”
“Ha! Well, let me know if you need to talk.”
I stood outside the boat and watched Kelly get onboard.
“Love you, Kell.”
“Love you, too!”
Kelly and I had truly bonded when she helped me get over my bout with anorexia after I broke up with Lana junior year. When Lana and I went to ballet class together, I was always slightly skinnier than she was, and she would point it out to me. “You are so tall; you are so skinny! I’m so jealous!” Really, she was the same size, just a few inches shorter with bigger boobs and shapelier hips.
I didn’t care much about being tall and skinny until we had our big fight. Then, I was determined to stay skinnier than her to try to make her really jealous. A few nights after our falling out, I told my mom I wasn’t hungry, skipped dinner, and went upstairs with only a carrot. As I walked up the stairs, I felt something tweak in my brain. I wasn’t the same anymore. I’d let something evil into my head—a demon. It was so foreign to me that I recognized its presence right away. I tried to ignore it. But now it was feeding me lies.
I ate my carrot and went to bed believing I was fat. How did I become fat in one night? I don’t know, but it didn’t matter, because I was disgustingly obese. The next morning I looked in the mirror, and I looked fat. Did I gain weight? I weighed myself, and the scale seemed to be broken. No, that can’t be right. Wasn’t I lighter last week?
Soon I was paying attention to everything I put in my mouth, counting calories, and skipping meals. When I would eat, it would be something like chocolate chips melted in a tortilla or a bag of grapes.
Then the cellulite came. When did I get cellulite? I’d stare at my legs
in my bedroom mirror. Why am I getting cottage cheese thighs? I never had that before. Or maybe I did, but I never noticed it. Why are my arms so big? Why is my stomach so flabby? What was normal to me before became horrifying. I had to get skinny. Any bit of fat was too much fat.
All these changes happened in my mind, but I knew they weren’t normal. I knew something wasn’t right. I knew deep down that it was wrong to obsess over my body.
After I met Bianca at one of Kelly’s Bible studies, we quickly became best friends, and I felt like I meant something to someone again. She was so encouraging and lovely. When we hung out, we laughed the whole time. Bianca’s friendship gave me a reason to get healthy. I knew it was time to ask for prayer.
At Bible study one night, when I decided to share my secret, I was so nervous I thought I would choke.
“I have a prayer request,” I said to the group of girls right before we prayed. “I’m prone to anorexia. I know I look too big to be anorexic, but I have these thoughts all the time. I am tempted to not eat.” I started crying. “And I just need you guys to pray for me.”
Everyone was quiet, staring at me. No one in the group had shared anything so serious before.
Kelly spoke. “First of all, you are not fat,” she said. “Second—we love you just the way you are.”
When Kelly and the other girls prayed for me, I cried—not so much because their words were profound, but because my heart was ready for God to begin the miracle of healing. Relief came with the confession. Saying my secret out loud, telling the other girls what was really going on, helped me distinguish between what was true and what was a lie. It straightened what had been bent in my head. I knew I needed more prayer, but I was on the right path once again.
Kelly and I hung out a lot after that. She would pick me up from ballet class and take me to Bible study, then drive me home. She would pick me up from school during lunch and take me to get Mexican food. We’d eat bean burritos and share what was really going on in our lives. God gave me Kelly, my mentor, as one of the best and most important gifts from heaven.
It saddened me that as much as I loved Kelly, I could never tell her what I was really going through with Paul. Besides, it was so stupid, how could I tell her? What would I say? Um, I’m in love with Paul and he used to like me, but now he is over me and I am crushed. I’m pretty sure that we are meant for each other, so I am counting on us getting married one day. That’s all I’m going through. No biggie, except that it consumes my daily thoughts and affects every choice I make. But it’s all in God’s hands, and God is a faithful and loving God, so there’s no way he would let me fall this hard for no reason, right? It’s cool. So how are you?
I was left to deal with my obsession alone—on this trip at least. After brushing my teeth and washing my face, I slowly climbed to the top of the houseboat and crawled into my sleeping bag. I cried into my pillow with only Jesus to hold me.
Oh God! Free me! I do not want this! God, Jesus, my Love! Please free me from this thorn! Please have mercy on this pitiful soul! I need you so desperately. I need you. Jesus. Hear my cries and save me from this—I give it to you! I beg you to take it away!
I wanted immediate help and healing. But whoever heard of such a thing? To become mature in a day, in a moment? Such change would be unnatural. No, I had to wait and go through this pain day after day until I was completely new.
I felt so alone.
Goodnight to My Thoughts of You Page 14