Faded Denim: Color Me Trapped (20 page)

“Yeah, as a matter of fact, I can. It does feel like a battle.”

“And it’s not just for your body, Emily. It’s for your soul too. Because think about it, if you lose this battle over your body . . . well, then what happens to your soul?”

“I know . . . I know what you mean.” I feel even more desperate now. “So what do I do? How do I fight this battle?”

“You need to be really praying, Em. And reading your Bible. And you may need to talk to someone at camp, someone who can be kind of a prayer warrior with you, you know what I mean? Someone
you can talk to about this.”

I immediately think of Brett and how we were prayer partners during the last camp. But how can I tell him about something like this—a stupid eating disorder? Anorexia? He’ll think I’m nuts.

“Is there someone you can talk to?”

“Brett McEwen is here.”

“Seriously?” She laughs. “You know I got the feeling that boy was into you last June, Em. You guys spent some time together.”

“We were prayer partners,” I say in exasperation. “He had a tough group of boys, and we made a commitment to pray for each other. That was all.”

“Well, great. Ask him to partner with you again.”

“I don’t know . . .”

“Do you want to win this battle or not?”

I look at the snack foods that my mom sent, still sitting on the little dresser by my bed, lined up like soldiers. I can imagine them sitting there untouched for the entire two weeks until they are dried up and moldy and gross, and I will have lost the battle. “Yeah,” I say, “I do want to win this battle.”

“Then you need to be praying and reading your Bible, and I really think you need a prayer warrior to support you when the going is tough.”

“But can’t that be you?”

“Yeah, definitely. But I’m not there, Em. You need someone who’s right there with you, someone who can see if you’re doing what you need to or not, someone who will call you on it.”

I let out a loud groan. “Why is this so hard?”

“Because the Devil doesn’t want you to win, Emily! It’s that simple. And especially when you’re at a camp where you’re supposed to minister to others with your music. He’d really like to destroy
you. And if he destroys you, he can really mess things up for a lot of people at the same time. It becomes a win-win for the Devil and a lose-lose for you. Can’t you see that?”

“Yeah,” I admit, “I guess I can.”

“So you’ll take my advice then?”

I close my eyes and swallow hard. “Yes. I’ll do my best.”

“This is so exciting!”

“Uh-huh . . .”

“No, seriously. It’s so cool that I was just reading that verse and praying for you and then you call. It’s like God is really at work here. And you know why I think that is?”

“No, why?” I’m sure my voice sounds disinterested, but mostly I’m just overwhelmed.

“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.

W
HEN
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 . . . that 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.”