Faded Denim: Color Me Trapped

by Melody Carlson

  For some reason this gets my attention. Still, I don’t respond.

  “But there might still be hope for you, Emily. How long have you been doing this anyway?”

  I consider this. “About three months, I guess.”

  “Tell me something,” she says, pausing for a moment, probably to just draw me in. “Does it make you happy?”

  I consider this. Happy? I can’t remember the last time I was really happy, but I know it would’ve been before I began this whole diet thing. Still, I just shrug.

  “I didn’t think so. I mean, we think being thin will make us happy, but it never does.”

  “Neither does being fat.”

  “Maybe not. But at least it doesn’t kill you. I mean, if you don’t let your weight get out of control. Not like anorexia. It always gets out of control. You think you’re in control, Emily, but you’re not. You have to get control over the anorexia. If you don’t get control over it, it’s going to control you—maybe forever. Sure, you might be able to stay skinny. I have a friend who’s done that. But you should see her. She’s forty, never been married, never had kids. She’s nothing but skin and bones and has lots and lots of serious health issues. Even her hair is falling out. But she is still ruled by anorexia—it dominates every single choice she makes. She literally has no life. Really, I can take you to see her if you don’t believe me. Or you could end up like me, fighting a metabolism that could put a snail to shame. Take your pick. But that’s the long-term prognosis for anorexics—if they survive. Some don’t.”

  Despite my attempts to shut out her comments, they’re getting to me. What she’s saying actually makes some sense. “But what do I do?” I ask her. “How do I stop this when I still want to be thin? When I still want to lose more weight?”

  “First of all, you need to realize and admit that it’s wrong. And you need to accept the fact that you’ve fallen into the trap.”

  “Trap?”

  “Of believing you still need to lose weight. Because, trust me, you could never lose enough. Once you start seeing yourself like this, it’s like looking in one of those fun-house mirrors where the image is all stretched out and distorted. You see fat no matter what you weigh. It never ends. So you have to accept that your thinking, as far as weight is concerned, has become skewed.”

  “How do you get unskewed?”

  She kind of laughs. “Well, there are treatments, of course. And I can give you some names.” She grabs a notepad from her desk and starts to write while she talks. “You might also want to check out some of these websites. It’s a good way to get information without actually walking in for an appointment. Something they didn’t have back when I was your age.”

  I nod like I might do that, although I doubt that I will.

  “But I have to say,” she continues, handing me her quickly scrawled list, “the thing that helped me the most was God. I honestly could not have escaped my anorexia without him. I just wish I would’ve done it a lot sooner. Like after only three months.” She holds her hands out. “Then maybe I wouldn’t look like this.”

  Her hint doesn’t escape me, but I still feel hopeless.

  “I decided to give my eating habits to God. I told him that my body wasn’t mine, but his, and that I wanted him to help me make wise choices. It didn’t happen overnight, and like I said, my parents did a pretty dramatic intervention thing with me. But it wasn’t until I actually made the choice—inviting God to help me—that things actually began to change.” She finally stops talking and just looks at me.

  “Thanks,” I tell her, unsure as to whether her words will change anything for me or not. But I do get what she’s saying. I really do.

  “Sorry to butt in like that. But when you’ve been there, done that . . . well, it’s hard to just stand by and watch someone else make the same mistakes.”

  “Yeah. I can understand that.”

  “I’ll be praying for you, Emily.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Have a good time at camp.” She gets a big grin now. “I hear you’re hot stuff on the guitar.”

  I kind of shrug. “I’m okay, I guess.” Of course, I don’t tell her I’ve been practicing like mad all week long. I’d neglected playing as much as I used to, using that time to exercise more. It’s like you have to choose. But all this week, I’ve been practicing like my life depended on it. Not that I can explain this yet, but I have a sense that maybe it does.

  As I walk home, I think about what Ronda just told me. Part of me thinks she’s telling the truth, but another part of me says she’s just jealous and that she wishes she weren’t so fat. Consequently, she wants to mess with my mind so that I’ll end up like her. And while I can see that the first part makes more sense, is more believable, and probably right, the other part has such a strong pull that by the time I get home, I’m just not sure anymore.

  sixteen

  AS I’M PACKING FOR CAMP ON SUNDAY NIGHT, I CAN’T HELP BUT NOTICE THE difference between the clothes I’m taking this time compared to what I took only two months ago. I hold up my faithful old Gap shorts that used to be too tight and actually consider taking them with me, but then I remember how Leah said they look pathetic, and I have to admit they do kind of hang on me now. But it’s still sort of fun to see them all loose and baggy. Kind of amazing, really.

  I stand before my full-length mirror, carefully checking out these surprisingly roomy shorts as I try to decide whether or not they can survive two more weeks of hard wear. But I have to admit that Leah is probably right. Besides being too big, the faded denim has worn pretty thin, and these shorts really do look a little worse for wear. And that’s when I notice my own pale image in the mirror. I can’t help but think, like my shorts, I’m looking a little faded and worse for wear. Or maybe I’m just tired. I remember how Pastor Ray said these next two weeks of camp will feel almost like a vacation—I just hope he’s right.

  As I’m getting some stuff from the bathroom, it occurs to me that I should take a box of tampons along, and then it hits me that my period is actually late. And not just a few days either. When I actually check the calendar, I discover that it’s more than two weeks late. Now if I were the kind of girl to mess around, I might really be worried. As it is, I am still somewhat worried. And there’s this nagging impression that it might have something to do with my diet and exercise regime.

  I’ve been trying not to think too hard about what Ronda said. I guess I still question her motives. Or maybe that’s just my excuse to dismiss her “advice.” But then I remember her challenge for me to go online and check out the anorexia websites she wrote down. And I have a feeling these particular spots are put together by medical professionals, not just more anorexic girls giving their get-thinquick tips to people like me.

  So, even though it’s late, I decide to do some quick research. Mostly to see if this missing-period thing might be related. That might put my mind at ease. And, besides, who cares about not having a period once in a while? No biggie.

  But instead of relief, all I get is more anxiety. The more I see, and the more I read, the scarier this whole anorexia thing gets. The list of all the side effects that can arise from eating disorders is pretty freaky. Here are the “complications” I read from just one list. Certain things seem to stand out to me.

  •

  Irregular heartbeat, cardiac arrest, death

  •

  Kidney damage, death

  •

  Liver damage, death

  •

  Esophagus rupture, teeth erosion, loss of muscle and bone mass

  •

  Stomach ulcers, gastritis, gastric distress

  •

  Disruption of menstrual cycle, eventual infertility

  •

  Delayed growth and stunted growth

  •

  Immune-system deficiency

  •

  Blood-circulation problems, resulting in cold hands and feet

  •

  Swollen glands an
d salivary duct stones, resulting in “chipmunk cheeks”

  •

  Excess hair growth on face and body

  •

  Dry, blotchy complexion with gray or yellow tones

  •

  Anemia, life-threatening fluid and mineral imbalances, death

  •

  Seizures, fainting, sleep disorders, hallucinations, fuzzy thinking

  •

  Low blood sugar that leads to tremors, anxiety, restlessness, and an uncontrollable itchy feeling

  •

  Osteoporosis and bone fractures

  •

  Anal and bladder incontinence

  •

  Urinary tract, vaginal, and kidney infections

  •

  Chronic constipation

  •

  Low estrogen levels, leading to atrophy of pelvic floor muscles, which must be surgically repaired

  Okay, I’m thinking the lesser problems—like having yellow or blotchy skin, facial hair, “chipmunk cheeks,” cold hands and feet, and constipation—are bad enough in and of themselves, and I’ve even experienced a few of those already. But I see now that those are relatively minor compared to some of the other stuff on that list. It’s hard to lightly dismiss things like permanent kidney and liver damage, heart problems, and, well, death. This website makes anorexia nervosa seem quite serious.

  Amazingly, there’s a part of me that wants to tune all this out, to just toss this information aside and pretend like it’s nothing more than propaganda created to frighten anorexics into behaving like “normal” people, fat people.

  Even so, I have this uncontrollable urge to keep reading and rereading this list, like I want to imprint it into my brain, like maybe this frightening information will help me to get out of this mess somehow. But when I finally turn off my computer, the words just slip away, like I can’t even remember them. Well, maybe except for the part about fuzzy thinking. I guess that’s how I feel. Like my brain is tired. Maybe I’m just ready to hit the hay.

  But when I go to bed, I’m restless and unable to sleep. Wasn’t restlessness one of the complications? I tell myself I’m just wired about camp, too excited to sleep. But as the night wears on, and the clock now says it’s 3:17 and I’m still wide awake, I’m not so sure anymore.

  My body feels like I’ve just run a mile. My heart is racing and jumping—like it’s going to pop right out of my chest. And yet I’m not even moving. I put my hand on my chest and try to count the beats and see how many there are per minute, but the beats are irregular. Some are strong and some are weak, and I’m not sure which ones to count. And soon I lose track and tell myself to forget about it. Even so, something doesn’t feel right.

  I try to tell myself that I’m simply overreacting to what I read earlier tonight, that I’m acting like a hypochondriac and that these feelings are psychosomatic, and that if I just concentrate on something else, these feelings will go away. So I breathe deeply and slowly, and then I make myself count from one hundred backward. But when I’m done I feel even worse. My heart is still pounding way too hard and way too irregularly. I think I’m starting to panic.

  I get out of bed and begin to pace around my room, trying to see if this activity helps or makes things worse. Then I go to the bathroom and slowly drink a glass of water. But nothing seems to change anything, and by 4:00 a.m., I think I could really be having an honest-to-goodness heart attack. So I walk down the hall to my parents’ room and stand there for a couple of minutes, considering whether to knock on their door and tell them what’s up.

  The idea of waking my parents in the middle of the night to tell them I think I’m having a heart attack is so bizarre. And I know my mom would freak and immediately call 9-1-1, and then what will happen to me? I’ll probably be dragged off in an ambulance, and then at the hospital they will inform me that I’m perfectly fine and that this whole thing was just my imagination. How embarrassing would that be? I walk back to my room, telling myself to just chill.

  Then I think maybe I should force myself to eat something. Maybe I’m having one of those low-blood-sugar symptoms I read about. So I go down to the kitchen and look around. I see calorieladen things like cookies and chips and I just cringe. How can I eat something like that? I open the fridge and everything in there seems to be leering at me, and it reminds me of that scene in Alice in Wonderland, only instead of pills it’s the food that says, “Eat me and you will get very big.” I slam the door shut and just lean into the breakfast bar, my heart pounding harder than ever now. Maybe I will die right here, in the kitchen, right in front of the refrigerator. The coroner’s report will probably say that I starved myself to death. But I really don’t want to die. I’m too young to die.

  “God, help me,” I pray as I cling to the tiled surface. “Please, please, help me, dear God. I know that something is wrong with me, and it’s probably all my fault for the way I’ve been treating my body. I’ve been stupid, God. I’m sorry. Please, help me, God. I want to change. I’ll do my best. I don’t want to die.”

  And I continue praying like that, half standing, half sprawled across the breakfast bar, begging God to keep me from dying. Being alone in the middle of the night and feeling the way I do, dying feels like a real possibility.

  Finally, it’s about five, and I am feeling a little calmer. And to my utter amazement, I am able to take a banana out of the fruit bowl and, knowing full well that bananas are packed full of carb calories, simply peel it and then slowly eat it. One tiny bite at a time. Then I pour myself a half glass of two-percent milk, and I slowly drink it without really considering that it’s not skim. Then, even though the sun is coming up, I go back to bed. And I sleep until eight thirty, which means I have exactly fifteen minutes to get to the church parking lot, which is thirty minutes away.

  “Are you feeling okay?” Mom asks as she drives me to church, going as fast as the speed limits will allow.

  “Yeah,” I tell her as I pull a brush through my hair. “I just didn’t sleep very good last night. But I got up and ate a banana and had some milk, and then I felt better.”

  Mom smiles with what I’m sure is relief. “Oh, good for you, honey. That’s probably just what you needed.”

  “Yeah, maybe.” I’m attempting to put on some mascara and lip gloss with the aid of the vibrating sun-visor mirror, all the while hoping that I haven’t been left behind. I’d feel really bad to let Pastor Ray down.

  There’s only one van left in the parking lot when we get to the church, waiting for me, it turns out. I tell Mom a hasty good-bye, then rush over to the van and apologize for being late. Fortunately for me, the driver, my old Sunday-school teacher Mrs. Adams, is understanding and patient.

  “No problem, Emily,” she tells me, indicating that I should sit in the seat beside her. “Pastor Ray said you’d be coming and to wait.”

  I glance in the back of the van to see three younger girls and a girl about my age, who I assume is a counselor. She’s helping with the blonde girl’s seat belt, and I’m not sure why, but for some reason I get the impression that these kids aren’t exactly “normal.” But, of course, I don’t say anything. Maybe this is the handicapped van, and that’s why we were last to leave. Whatever. I don’t really care. I’m just glad they waited for me.

  I tell Mrs. Adams about not getting much sleep last night and how that’s what made me late, and she tells me to just lean back and take a nap if I’d like. And so I do.

  When I wake up, we’re already in the camp parking lot, and the counselor, whose name I’ve now heard is Melissa, is helping a girl named Gina into a wheelchair. And as I get out of the van, I notice other kids and counselors milling about the parking lot, and I realize that all the kids here, at least all the ones I can see, appear to have some kind of disability.

  As I help Mrs. Adams unload some bags and supplies, I quietly ask her about this camp. “I kind of got drafted at the last minute,” I say, “so I wasn’t really sure what the age group was and stuf
f . . .”

  She smiles at me. “The last camp of the year is always for specialneeds campers ages eight to eighteen.”

  I nod as if this is the most normal thing in the world. “Cool,” I say. But what I’m actually thinking is, this looks like some kind of freak show. Okay, I hate admitting that, and it just shows how shallow I really am. But as I look around at all these kids with all these problems, well, I start feeling pretty depressed. It is just so sad, and I wish I hadn’t agreed to come.

  “Hey,” says Pastor Ray. “You made it.”

  I explain to him about not sleeping and how it made me late. “I felt kind of sick last night,” I finally say.

  He frowns. “But you’re okay now?”

  “Yeah. I feel better. Just kinda tired.”

  “Well, the worship team plans to meet at eleven to do some practicing. You might be able to grab a quick nap until then.” He tells me where my room is, a private one up in the lodge.

  “Just like a VIP,” I say.

  He nods. “Yep. Enjoy.”

  So I take my guitar case and duffel bag and sleeping bag and go off in search of my private room. And I have to admit that I feel relieved to get away from these kids with their oxygen tanks and wheelchairs and other kinds of medical paraphernalia. This whole scene kind of gives me the heebie-jeebies.

  I’m in room number 12, and although it’s small and nothing fancy, I am so glad that I don’t have to share it with anyone else. I unpack a few things, noticing as I do that Mom must’ve sneaked some snacks into my duffel bag. And I’m just about to toss these offensive items into the trash when I stop myself. I remember how sick I felt last night, and how I prayed to God, begging him to help me, and how I promised him that I’d start doing things differently, and that I’d start taking care of myself and eating right.