“Because I’m finally putting my inner life above my exterior life. I’m letting God change me, and he’s showing me how to live for him. And I’m finding out that it’s pretty cool.”
“How are your boobs?”
She laughs. “Oh, they’re healing up. Slowly. But if I could turn back the clock and reverse that whole thing, I really would. That was so stupid.”
I wonder if I would do the same. If I could turn the clock back to last May when I was forty pounds heavier and miserable, would I? The honest truth is that I don’t think so. I really don’t want to be fat again. And this scares me. Yet at the same time, I don’t want to be anorexic either. The fact is, I want to have my cake and eat it too. I’m pathetic.
“This is a battle,” I admit to Leah. “I just hope that I don’t end up losing it.”
“You won’t, Em,” she assures me. “Now write down these Bible verses, okay? And then read them and really take them into your heart. And pray. And don’t forget to get a prayer partner.”
So I write down the references to the verses and thank her, promising to keep her informed of my progress, or my lack thereof, which seems more likely. And then I take my Bible out of my duffel bag, and I actually sit down on my bed to look up the verses.
But after rereading the section that Leah already read to me on the phone, my eyelids feel so heavy and I feel so completely tired that I just end up falling asleep. Great start on the battle.
eighteen
WHEN I WAKE UP, I’M HOT AND GROGGY AND, ONCE AGAIN, DISORIENTED. Or maybe it’s simply “fuzzy thinking”—just one of the many lovely side effects of anorexia nervosa. I see my Bible, still lying open on the bed, and I look at the Ephesians verses again, rereading the words aloud in the hope that the sound alone will pound them into my weary brain.
It’s not three o’clock yet, too early to go practice, but I feel like I need some fresh air to clear my head. Also, my water bottle is empty and I am really, really thirsty. I notice the snacks my mom sent still sitting in a straight row on the dresser. And I feel an unexpected impulse to pick up the banana, but as usual, I hesitate. Talk about your high-carb fruits. Bananas are by far the worst. I stand there just staring at the stupid banana—like it’s him against me. Just eat it, I tell myself. No biggie. Just pick it up and eat it.
“God, help me,” I pray as I reach again for the banana. Then I pick it up, and without allowing myself to second-guess this choice, I begin to peel it and then take off a small bite, slowly chewing it, fighting back a gag reflex, and finally managing to swallow. Why is this so freaking hard?
I sit down on the bed again with the banana in one hand and the Bible in my lap. And as I slowly eat the banana, I read and reread the Ephesians verses. And before I fully realize what’s happened, I find that the banana is gone! All of it.
I look around the room, almost as if I expect to spy a little monkey hiding in the corner as he polishes off my banana. But there is no monkey. Only me. And I realize that I really did eat the whole thing, and my stomach doesn’t even hurt.
Feeling somewhat victorious, I pick up my water bottle and my guitar. But then I feel a strong impulse to set down the water bottle and leave it behind. And yet I’m really thirsty.
Drink something that will nourish you.
Okay, I know I didn’t actually hear those words, not audibly anyway, unless I really am going crazy, and I don’t think I am. But I have this strong sense that I heard it on some level. And I have a strong sense that I should listen. So I set down my water bottle, shove some money into my shorts pocket, and head out to the Snack Shack, where I buy a bottle of apple juice and drink it. Then, because I’m still thirsty, I buy a bottle of SoBe green tea, knowing full well that it’s sweetened, and not artificially. And I drink it.
By the time I go to practice, I’m feeling more energized than I have in weeks. I guess I’m partially jazzed over the idea that I’m somehow engaging in this spiritual war—and maybe even winning this particular battle, although I’m fully aware that this is only the beginning and I could easily lose the next. In fact, to be honest, I almost expect to lose the next.
Still, I tell myself, this could be a turning point. It’s possible that I really can get out of my anorexic trap. But even as the hope of that hits me, I am hit by another thought, one that’s more grim: You may escape the anorexic trap, but you’ll be fat again. It makes me want to scream or cry or just give up. As I walk down the path, the phrase fat, fat, fat—you must go back to that is reverberating through my head in time with my steps.
“Hey, Em,” says Brett as he jogs up and joins me as I walk toward the mess hall. “How’s it going?”
“Okay.” I try to erase that “fat” line from my head, and I force a wimpy smile at him.
“Feeling better?”
I nod. “Yeah. A little.” But even as I say this, I can feel how false it is. Okay, maybe I did feel a little better for a second, but right now, I feel utterly hopeless. And I’m fighting the urge to run to the bathroom and barf. I’m also considering the idea of walking about ten miles after we finish practice, and then I’ll eat dinner like a normal person, then head to the bathroom as soon as I’m done. This entire well-conceived plan flashes through my head in less than a second, I’m sure.
But then I remember Leah’s challenge to me and how I promised to find a prayer partner, and I have an impression that this could be my opportunity. “Can I ask you a really big favor, Brett?”
“Sure. Shoot.”
I consider how to begin. “This isn’t easy . . .”
“Want to sit down a minute?” He stops by the bench in front of the mess hall, and we both sit down.
“Thanks.” I take a deep breath, wondering how to say this—just say it. “I need to talk to someone. And I promised Leah that I would. She said I need a prayer-warrior partner.”
“Hey, no problem. Remember, we did that during the last camp. But I know you don’t have any crazy campers to deal with this time.”
“No . . . just myself.” I turn and look at him. “Can I trust you?”
He looks slightly uncomfortable but says, “Yeah.”
“Okay, this is the deal. I got so obsessed with losing weight this summer that I actually became anorexic.” I feel my cheeks burning with this admission. I can’t believe I actually said it. And I have no idea how he’ll react.
He nods. “Yeah, that’s not too surprising.”
I kind of blink. Did I hear him right? He’s not surprised? Or maybe the reason he’s not surprised is because he figures that’s the only way a fat girl like me could lose that much weight so quickly. Whatever. I’ve taken this hard step, why not take another?
“Well, it kind of surprised me,” I admit. “I never really meant for it to get like this. Not at the beginning. I just wanted to lose some weight before school started again. It didn’t seem like a big deal.”
“I can understand that. But the thing is, I’ve seen this happen before, Emily. My older sister, Audra, has really struggled with anorexia and bulimia. She’s in her twenties now and still doesn’t have it under control. So I guess I’ve gotten so I kinda recognize what it looks like, you know?”
“Seriously? Your sister?”
“Yeah. So I really do know how hard it is.”
“Well, I’ve decided I want to stop.” I feel tears now. They could be from relief or embarrassment or just plain desperation, but the last thing I want to do is to start crying in front of Brett. I mean, it’s so cool that he gets this, that he understands. But what happens if I fall apart? Please, please, I warn myself, don’t blow this thing by bawling.
“Good for you.”
“But I can tell it’s not going to be easy. I mean, it seems like every single bite is a great big battle.” Then I tell him about the verses Leah read to me and how I am treating my anorexia like a real spiritual battle. “I just don’t want to lose it,” I finally say. “And Leah thinks that if someone here knows what’s going on with me, well . . . t
hat they can pray for me and check on me, you know, kinda like babysitting, I guess.” I roll my eyes.
“Hey, I’m cool with that.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. No problem. Just don’t get mad at me if I try to get you to clean your plate or eat your dessert.”
“I promise you, I won’t get mad. But I can only eat so much, you know, to start with anyway, until I get more used to the whole food thing. But I wanna make sure that I’m eating as much as I can, and not just salad and veggies either.”
“Great.” Now he looks at his watch and I see that it’s almost three.
“We should probably go inside,” I say.
He stands up and gives me a hand. “You’re going to beat this, Emily.”
“Really?” I look up at him with hopeful eyes. “You really think so?”
“I do. But I agree with Leah, you do need help.” He holds the door open for me. “I mean, I can tell you’re a strong person, but you can’t do it alone. First off, you need to lean on God. Remember what 2 Corinthians 12:9 says—that God’s strength is made perfect in our weakness. But you can lean on me too.”
“Thanks,” I tell him as we go inside. And, really, I feel as if a huge weight has just been lifted off me. Oh, I’m not light and free and ready to fly. But I think maybe I can function.
It surprises me that I feel more able to focus this afternoon as we rehearse some songs. I have a feeling it’s from eating the banana and drinking the juice. Amazing how food can affect your performance. Kind of like putting fuel in your car, it just runs better. I guess God knew what he was doing when he designed us like this.
“You have a really great voice, Emily,” Harris tells me as we’re wrapping up. “How would you feel about doing a solo sometime? Like maybe during campfire? I have this song I’d like us to do, but I think you would totally rock in the vocals. You game?”
“I, uh, I guess so. I mean, I could at least try it at rehearsal. Then if you think I can swing it, well, I’ll give it my best shot.”
“Cool. I’ll give you the music after dinner. That way you can look it over and we can start working on it tomorrow.”
“What song is it?” I ask, thinking perhaps I already know it.
“It’s one that I wrote.”
“Oh.” I nod. “Very cool.”
He shrugs. “We’ll see, huh?”
So then we play for dinner. And tonight, I feel a little more relaxed and find myself actually looking at the campers a bit more as I play and sing. But I have to admit, if only to myself, that I’m still not comfortable around them. I feel really sad, like why did God allow all these problems and birth defects and illnesses and stuff? But I try not to focus on this as we do our songs, since we’re supposed to smile and look happy. And I suppose it’s encouraging to see how much these kids appreciate the music. It really does seem to be a highlight for them. And I gotta think that’s pretty cool.
Then it’s time to eat again, and I tell myself to just chill—that I can do this, one bite at a time. But, as it was before, each bite is still a challenge, and I can’t get rid of the nagging thought that I am putting on weight every time I swallow. It’s an obsession. But finally, I think that I’m done. There’s still food on my plate, but it’s better than I did at lunchtime.
“Gonna eat that?” asks Brett, pointing to my untouched blackberry cobbler topped with whipped cream.
“You want it?” I offer.
He just frowns at me. “Come on, Emily,” he urges me quietly. “It’s really good and berries are supposed to be healthy. Try it.”
So I pick up my spoon and take a spoonful, careful to get only the dark berries—not the crust or whipped cream. I hesitantly taste the berries, and to my surprise they actually do taste good. And so I eat another bite. Before long I have eaten all the berries from my cobbler, leaving the crust and cream behind.
“Not bad,” I say to Brett.
“Not bad,” he says back. And I notice Harris watching us as if he’s curious as to what kind of game we’re playing here. And that’s when I remember the verse he read to us before rehearsal today. I do remember the reference was James 5:16, but I can’t remember the exact words—except that it had to do with confessing your sins to each other and praying for each other and, consequently, getting healed. I couldn’t believe how hard it hit home with me, although I didn’t say anything at the time. The reason Harris shared this particular verse, he said, was because he wanted the worship team to get close, close enough that we could confess things and pray for each other. “It’s how God is going to be glorified by our music.” But after he said this we all got very quiet, and maybe even self-conscious. Then he just prayed and we started to practice. But it’s like that verse has been haunting me ever since.
“I’m anorexic,” I blurt out to Harris and Nick.
Brett looks slightly surprised by my admission, and I’m actually shocked. But Harris and Nick just look at me, and I can’t read their expressions.
“But I’m trying to stop,” I continue. “Maybe I’m a recovering anorexic.”
“That’s cool,” says Harris. “Better to be recovering than stuck in it.”
“Yeah,” agrees Nick. “I’m a recovering alcoholic.”
Well, this is pretty stunning to me, but I try not to show it. “Anyway,” I say, “because of the verse you shared today, Harris, about confessing stuff . . . well, I kinda knew that it applied to me.”
He smiles. “Cool. I was getting worried that maybe I’d misheard God on that one. But I got this really strong impression that I was supposed to read that verse, that it was for the welfare of the whole group.”
“Well, you really nailed me on it. I mean, I’d already confessed it to Brett. He and I were prayer partners at a camp last June. We were both counselors and both had these problem kids. So I asked him to be my prayer partner with this too, since I’m still really struggling with it—kind of like a spiritual battle, you know? I hadn’t really planned on telling anyone else until you hit me with that verse. So I just thought I might as well confess it to you guys, just get the ugly out into the open.”
Nick laughs. “I like that—get the ugly out into the open.”
“And then you find you’re not the only one with problems,” says Harris.
“Yeah, that’s kinda comforting.”
“Well, I’m really glad you told us,” says Harris. “Now we can all be supportive of you.” He glances at my picked-over dessert now. “Hey, you gonna finish that off or not?”
I laugh. “Hey, I think I did pretty good to just get the berries down.”
“Cool,” he says as he reaches his spoon across the table and scoops up my leftover whipped cream. “I’ll take care of it for you then.”
Nick laughs, then pats his rotund belly. “Better you than me, dude.”
I just hope that I’m not going to start resembling Nick now. I mean, I may think I’m beating this thing, but I can tell there’s still a huge part of me that’s still dragging its heels. I know the battle isn’t over. In fact, it’s probably barely begun.
nineteen
I CALL LEAH THE NEXT DAY TO REPORT MY PROGRESS. SHE SEEMS QUIETER THAN usual, like maybe she’s feeling down, so I blab on and on, filling up the dead spaces as I tell her about my life and how I actually asked Brett for prayer support, then even confessed my anorexia to the rest of the worship team. Finally I pause to take a breath.
“Good for you.” Her voice sounds tired and far away, and I can tell that something’s not right.
“Leah, are you okay?”
“It’s Becca,” she says in a serious tone. “She’s in the hospital.”
“What happened?”
“She’s bulimic, Emily!” The way she announces this reveals how shocking she’s finding this news. “Can you believe it?”
“Actually, I figured she was.”
“You knew?”
“Well, I saw, or rather heard, her hurling in the bathroom one day last spring. And whe
n she came out, she seemed perfectly fine. Happy even. I kind of figured that’s what was up.”
“And you didn’t tell me?”
“I guess I thought you knew. I mean, isn’t it kinda the norm with a lot of models who want to stay skinny? Like in Chicago,” I remind her. “You’d have to have been blind and deaf not to know that a bunch of those girls were either anorexic or bulimic or both.”
“I had my suspicions.”
“Well, I had actual conversations, Leah. They even gave me tips on how to do it. That’s probably when I first crossed the line—stopped eating and started overexercising, you know. I just followed their example. Although I assured myself at the time that I would never take it as far as some of them had. I mean, some of those girls were like walking skeletons. Remember that Saundra chick from Atlanta?”
“Ugh. Don’t remind me. Anyway, back to Becca. She’s damaged her esophagus from throwing up so much. And she probably has ulcers too. But that’s not even why she was admitted.”
“Why?”
“LaMar said she had a seizure while they were doing a fitting for a back-to-school fashion show. They had to call an ambulance and everything. By the time they got her to the hospital, her electrolytes were really a mess. She could’ve died. It didn’t take long for them to find out she was bulimic. I guess her parents are totally freaking.”
“That’s gotta be hard. But why did LaMar call you about it? Not that you don’t care, but it’s not like you and Becca were exactly close or anything.”
“Because Becca can’t do the fashion show now and LaMar really wants me to take her place.”
“Are you?”
“I don’t know . . . I’d already told him that I’m kinda done with that now.”
“So you’re really finished with fashion then? Seriously?” Okay, part of me is glad, since it seems like modeling stuff was always taking Leah away from me, but part of me feels bad for her. I mean, I know how much she loved it and how good she was at it. It’s just that the breast-reduction surgery sort of took her over the edge. Kind of the way anorexia took me over the edge.
Faded Denim: Color Me Trapped Page 15