Popular: Boys, Booze, and Jesus

by Tindell Baldwin

  The problem was that the alcohol wore off, the high faded, and the loneliness came back. Each time, I was reminded of the decisions I’d made. My broken heart was still beating, still screaming to be loved, and the boy I thought could heal me had said his good-byes. I had nowhere left to turn. My friends had become my family, but most of them were in the same situation, if not a worse one. We had formed our friendships with the same ideals in mind: we didn’t care what the rules were. Only now we were all paying the price. We tried to fix it, though. We had our weird ways of coping.

  The community I had built to keep me from feeling alone didn’t ease the loneliness that I felt every day. My need for popularity had driven me to do things I couldn’t take back, but my social status didn’t provide my breaking heart with any comfort.

  CHAPTER 5

  DISASTER WITHOUT THE BEAUTIFUL

  WHEN YOU’RE LIVING a destructive life, you get to the point where the end becomes so near you can feel it like cold wind on your face. I knew I was brushing up close with the end. The fork in the road was coming, and I could either change or choose to slip into a spiral so deep the only thing that would get me out was rehab or death. I realized this, and instead of facing change I tried to take control.

  I was never obsessed with dieting, because I love food. Not healthy food. I love cupcakes, cookies, cakes, ice cream—really anything with sugar and butter. I thought working out consisted of walking up a long flight of stairs, and I never worried about bikini season. I should say that I have the metabolism of an antelope with the body of a giraffe; it’s all in the genes, so my weight was never a huge concern. When I did fall into the trap of dieting, it was more because all my friends did it and I didn’t want to be left out. I complained about my body because that’s what you do at sixteen, and I worked out because my friends and I were all members of the same gym.

  Then I got my heart broken when my first real love left, and something inside me shifted. My world was spinning desperately out of control, and I’m a control person. I enjoy leadership positions, I love making decisions, and I’m not overwhelmed by crowds—but I couldn’t control my life. This guy I’d given myself to had all the control. He was the leader of our dysfunctional pack, and he decided I wasn’t allowed to go to our school’s winter dance, I wasn’t allowed at any of the parties, and I most certainly couldn’t date. I was in a deep depression, watching this boy I loved run around with all my “friends” while I was left sitting at home.

  So I stopped eating. This new obsession started the minute he broke up with me. Suddenly, all food became unappetizing. Then I began making a conscious effort to avoid food altogether. After a few days my jeans felt a little looser, although they were only a size 4 to begin with. I found that my food intake was one thing I still had control of. I couldn’t control what my ex did or whether my friends would hang out with me, but I could control food. So I refused it and witnessed my parents’ eyes fill with concern. I still worked out daily, and everyone watched as my weight continued to shrink. At my height, you can’t really lose that much weight and have it go unnoticed. When my collarbone started to stick out, people began talking. The more people talked, the more I enjoyed it. I wanted my ex to know he had damaged me, and by this point I didn’t care what the consequences were.

  After a few months, maybe three, I started dating someone new, and he constantly praised how thin I was. I was weighing in at 120 pounds at five foot ten and loving all the attention. I drank the control with a shot of vodka and hoped things would be different now. Of course, I should have seen this as a sign of my unhappiness; I should have given in and told my parents the truth, which was that I needed help. But I kept trying to fill the void myself. Life didn’t get any easier, though. Each time I tried to move on, my heart got broken again, and I didn’t know how to put it back together.

  A few months after I stopped eating, the doctors told me I had to put on weight. My friends were begging me to eat. They even took me out and bought me meals. I could see that I was becoming unhealthy, but I loved the power not eating gave me. On some level I was aware that if I kept controlling my food, it would become a beast I couldn’t control. I knew girls who had full-blown eating disorders, and I didn’t want to end up there. But I enjoyed the attention so much; I liked being noticed even if it was for the wrong reason. I didn’t stop eating because I wanted to lose weight, but I liked hearing that I was skinny. See, when your life is spinning out of control, you’ll desperately grasp whatever you can. This was my grasping, and it was so easy. All I had to do was starve myself.

  During this time, my parents had me in counseling to try and help me see that my behavior was hurting me, but I was completely unreceptive to what the counselors had to say. The temperature in the Stanfill house was rising. The more I starved myself, the more frantic my parents became. At first they were concerned about my destructive choices, then terrified. Then after one incident, they were panicked.

  ♥

  It was a typical Friday night for me. I was onto yet another relationship, and even though I didn’t really care about the guy, I couldn’t be alone. I was at a friend’s house drinking with my new crush when his ex-girlfriend showed up, and they disappeared to a bedroom upstairs. After that, I started drinking more and called my best guy friend, and he told me to come over. He was my run-to guy, and whenever I was lonely we’d end up making out. I drove about twenty minutes, drunk and lonely, to where he was. By the grace of God, I made it without hurting myself or anyone else. I told my friend what had happened, and we decided to split a water bottle full of vodka shot by shot. That’s sixteen shots total, and I’d already had seven or eight. By the time we were halfway through the water bottle, I was out.

  The next morning I woke up half-dressed and hungover, my cell phone ringing by the bed. It was my mom. I told her I was on my way home from the friend’s house where I was supposed to be staying. I knew I smelled like vodka, so I sprayed some perfume I kept in the car and downed a bottle of water. I was still drunk. When I got home, my mom told me I needed to clean my room. She eyed me suspiciously and asked if I was okay. I lied and made it up the stairs before I passed out. Next thing I knew, she was waking me up. The room was spinning, and I ran to the bathroom and started throwing up.

  The whole room filled with the stale smell of vodka as my mom watched me empty my stomach. It didn’t stop. I threw up for the next hour or so, probably once for every shot. I tried to tell my mom I had the stomach flu, but she wasn’t buying it. I spent the rest of the day in bed. My dad came home early, and I overheard their concerned voices in the hall talking about what to do next.

  Back to the Rapids . . .

  My dad sat across the table from me just like he had three years earlier, and he looked at me with the same worried face. I saw something I hadn’t seen before: disappointment. Then he reminded me of the conversation we’d had three years ago, the one where I’d told him that drinking was just an experiment and that I was only having a bit of fun. I’d told him I was just enjoying high school. Three years later, he looked across the table and saw his little girl depressed and broken. My dabbling had drained the life out of me, and if you really looked into my eyes, you could see my soul was dead.

  He said, “I tried to warn you where this was going.” And with a slow shake of his head, he told me he’d tried to prevent this. I was drowning in the rapids, and he was afraid I was past the point of saving. I’d committed the sins, and now he couldn’t help me. At fifteen I was just experimenting, but at eighteen I was drowning in my sin, soaked in the waters of depression and loneliness. In that first conversation he’d told me that if I kept going, I would have sex, I’d be doing drugs, and I’d be addicted to alcohol, and he was right. I was exactly where he knew the rapids would take me.

  See, the details of your journey may be different, but the destination is always the same. Maybe your temporary high from the popular lifestyle will last longer than mine did, but it will always wear off. Eventually, reali
ty will hit you in the face, and you’ll find that this kind of life is empty, and the more you want for yourself the less you can really grasp.

  As much as he wished he could take away my pain, my father couldn’t. He couldn’t erase where I’d been, and now I would always carry it with me. Then he cried. I’d seen him cry only once before, at my great-grandfather’s funeral. But on this day he cried. He cried for his lost daughter and for the pain of regret. He cried because there was nothing he could do. He cried because he believed in me and knew I was meant for better. He cried because he couldn’t protect me like he had when I was a little girl, and he cried for my broken heart.

  This seemed to be the beginning of the end. I’d gotten into Auburn University, but my parents told me if I didn’t clean up my act then I wouldn’t be going to Auburn in the fall. They grounded me indefinitely until they were certain I wasn’t a danger to myself. I was already alone, and now I was caged. I didn’t know what to do. I carefully considered suicide but realized I didn’t have the guts. I wrote good-bye letters to my parents and then tore them up. I would sit in my room with a handful of pills and then change my mind. Somewhere in the pit of my stomach, I knew this wasn’t the end. The quiet voice of God’s Holy Spirit that I’d tried to drown in vodka was still alive and still trying to get my attention.

  God never gave up on me. Even after I gave up on myself, He still had a plan for me. And despite my constant attempts to escape Him, He was all that remained. I came to the end of myself. I was heartbroken, desolate, and desperate. It was my senior year, and I was set to leave for Auburn that fall. I refused to do anything that would endanger that opportunity. I stayed grounded for a month or maybe longer before my parents decided to let me out.

  While I was grounded, I got a few packages from old family friends saying that they were praying and that for some reason God had put me on their hearts. They sent prayer books that I wouldn’t read, but the fact that they’d reached out to me meant something. I couldn’t shake the idea that people I hadn’t spoken to in years had reached out to me on behalf of God. So it began—tiny pinpricks to let me know even though I had abandoned God, He hadn’t abandoned me.

  At this stage, writing was my only solace. I could go to my journal and pour out my broken heart without being judged. I could show the page what I couldn’t let anyone else see. This was my way of healing in these hard times. I had an outlet no one else could see, and like all creative endeavors, it freed my soul. For me, creativity was part of the healing process. I believe that getting my thoughts and feelings down on paper literally saved my life. I have one-too-many drafted suicide notes that were never acted on because just writing down my pain released enough hurt to let me go on. What I know now is that creativity is one of our most precious gifts. God is a very creative God. If you doubt that, just look outside or in the mirror. God is the Creator; therefore, He is ultimately creative. We were made in God’s image; therefore, we were made to create. Whether it’s in writing, drawing, music, or whatever else you love, it will be healing for you.

  My oldest brother is a songwriter and singer, and he tells me he makes the best music whenever he goes through rough times. We can use our creative expression to free our souls, find our uniqueness, or praise our King, because we’re made to create. So here was my voice during that time of my life:

  When I look in the mirror, that face that stares back at me haunts my every nightmare and breathes life into my deepest fear. The face that stares back at me is one of lost dreams and empty promises. This is what threatens my being; the shadow in the mirror is one of no hope and broken love. The image is a daunting reminder that I’m forgotten and unappreciated by the people I thought loved me. My face is one of pain, and if you look into my eyes you can see rivers of sadness and mountains of brokenness. My demeanor brings darkness and alienation. You see no love and little compassion. If you look deep enough, you may view the scars that have been burned in my soul by lost lovers and friends who betrayed me, and if you can see past my rough exterior, you see a little girl who is dying to be loved. To get past the exterior is humanly impossible, so I build walls of UN-trust and broken bridges of hate, because after this I’ll never love again.

  My journal was the one place I could be me. When I was writing, I could shed my rough-and-tough exterior and let my dying soul out. I have pages and pages of pain, notebooks where I’m begging to be healed, to be loved, to be made whole. I didn’t know how, though, so I just wrote what I really wanted to say to the world. I wrote all the pain that I bottled up every day. I was searching, always looking for something to complete me, so I fumbled around from one dark thing to the next, hoping something would satisfy. I kept hoping that maybe the next thing would make me happy. Sometimes, for a brief time, it did, but it never lasted.

  But there was one thing left. One thing that could still get my attention: watching my oldest brother lead worship.

  Good Friday

  I promised my mom I would go with her to hear my brother at our church’s Good Friday service as long as she would let me go to a party right afterward. I was suddenly regretting that decision as we pulled up to the church. It was already seven o’clock, and I knew most of my friends would be drunk without me. As we made our way into the candle-filled sanctuary, something came over me like a wave of relief. I could almost feel God in this place. I quickly pushed it out of my mind; God had no place in my life.

  The stage was set up in the middle of the sanctuary with chairs surrounding it. I saw my brother playing the guitar by a wooden cross standing in the middle of the stage. We sat right in front of him, and I gave a tiny wave. He was the only reason I ever went to church; my pride in his talent outweighed my hatred of church.

  Then he started to sing, and I tried to ignore the words as they washed over me.

  Jesus paid it all,

  All to Him I owe;

  Sin had left a crimson stain,

  He washed it white as snow.

  I couldn’t help but wonder if He, Jesus, could really wash my sin away. I knew my sin was more of a black cloak than a crimson stain, but for a second . . . I wondered. Slowly, a battle of questions began in my head.

  Could Jesus set me free? Could He take this broken heart and fill it? Could He forgive the horrible things I did to my family and friends? What about drinking? Well, I had to drink; I didn’t know how to be fun without it. More words I tried to ignore:

  O praise the One who paid my debt

  And raised this life up from the dead.

  I knew I had a debt. I knew I had too much sin for one man to take on. I needed my own cross. I told myself that just like the boys I’d been with couldn’t rescue me, Jesus could never help me.

  I tried to stay strong and keep my thoughts on what I was doing after the service, but the quiet voice I’d been trying so hard to destroy came to life. My heart began to quicken, and I could almost feel forgiveness—I only had to ask. I didn’t want it, though. I wasn’t ready to change. Instead, I let the tears fill my eyes and overflow down my cheeks. I cried for my broken heart and for the shame of my sins. I cried because I knew I needed Jesus, but I wasn’t ready to give in. I cried because I wanted to stay in this place forever, sheltered from the pain of the outside world, sheltered from yesterday’s broken promises and tomorrow’s failures. I cried because I wasn’t strong enough to make the right choice.

  My mom reached over and placed her hand in mine, a quiet reminder that she was there for me. I knew she was. I knew that one day I would cry because God had redeemed me. I knew one day my mom and I would be great friends.

  There were many times like this, tiny reminders that God was still watching me. My mom would tell me she didn’t feel good about something, and lo and behold, the cops would come to a party. Many times she would warn me against people or places, and she was always right. She knew when she needed to be on her knees in prayer and when to be peering into my bedroom to make sure I was still breathing. She knew because God hadn’t given up on m
e. She called it her “mother’s intuition,” but my parents always knew that God was protecting me.

  I left high school with big scars but no permanent damage. I think it was God’s way of telling me He wasn’t done with me.

  CHAPTER 6

  DESPERATE TO BELONG

  IT’S NOW SIX years since I was in high school. I sit at Starbucks watching a high school girl with her friends. She takes a long drag on her cigarette and drops the f-bomb a few times as she talks about her latest breakup. She complains about how hard life is and all the drama she hates so much. It feels very familiar: the cigarettes, the f-bomb, but more important, the anger. There’s always something to be upset about, because, let’s be honest, life really isn’t fair, especially when you’re sixteen. As she lights up another cigarette and talks incessantly about herself, each word drips with disdain. I want to give her a hug (while putting out the cigarette) and tell her it will get better.

  When I was going through high school, the greatest anger I felt was toward my family. They were a constant reminder of the Christian life I had given up, and I partly blamed them for my heartache. I was angry that they were so happy and that they didn’t understand why I wanted to be different. When we’d go on long car trips, my parents would put on Andy Stanley sermons that I refused to listen to. I put on my headphones and turned up my favorite rap CD (very hard core, I know).