"And I feel like I'm naked in front of the crowd, cause these words are my diary screaming out loud and I know that You'll use them however You want to."
These are memoirs of my journey in freedom, sanctification, and love.
Someday I hope to read it like a history book.
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Warning: graphic content, may trigger some
I wake up at 6 in the morning for another day of school. It is Monday and I hate Mondays. It is May but past my birthday, so I don’t really care anymore and I’ve had a long year and I just want summer already. I’m running a little low on sleep, due to the splitting headache I had last night until finally I gave in and took some Advil. I make sure to dedicate the day to the Lord, God this day is Yours God please strengthen me injesusnameamen. I’m slightly disoriented as my step-mom informs me that I made my breakfast last night but forgot to put it in the refrigerator (I don’t remember this), and I, for no apparent reason, deny my good friend and neighbor’s offer to go inside her house as they are not ready to leave for school yet (she then gives me a confused expression as I realize the nonsense of what I just said and tell her I’m sorry, I’m so discombobulated). I can’t breathe through my nose; I have a cold. The weather is grey and dreary from the aftermath of two straight weeks of downpour. What a great way to start a Monday morning.
I go through my day as usual. I’m half asleep and extremely busy. I blow my nose at least 15 times per class period, sick as a dog. I don’t talk to my friends and go through the motions - it’s not that I’m depressed, I’m just really, really tired. I go on a field trip to Giant for my independent living class (weird I know) and just finish half of the assignment because I am so lethargic today. This is nothing abnormal, especially for a Monday. But I’m not like this all the time, just during the day. I guess I’m nocturnal, or something.
It is the last period of the day: English. There are 20 minutes left, give or take, until the bell rings. We’re reading something in the Lit book, but I’m too antsy to follow along. I go to blow my nose for about the 200th time today. As I throw the tissue in the garbage, I notice that there is blood all over my hand. Oh, my nose must be bleeding, it’s fine, I hardly ever get nosebleeds and when I do they last like 10 minutes, tops. I’ll just take care of it here as I “listen” to the short story, no one will even notice.
People notice. Ten minutes later, it is far from stopping and my hands can’t move fast enough to block it. I’m a mess - it’s dripping all over my shirt each time I change the tissue and my friend is whispering to me, go to the nurse right now. But what is she going to do that I’m not doing now, and besides, all the attention would be on me, I’m so embarassed. Finally the teacher tells me to go and I boltto the nurse as I’m running out of tissues and need some, quick. I glance at my watch and realize this has been going on for twenty minutes.
Do you get nosebleeds a lot? she asks, in a reassuring and patient tone. No. No I never get nosebleeds I have no idea why I’m getting one so bad right now oh my gosh.
Oh yeah. For the past four months I’ve tasted blood in the back of my throat 24/7. For the past three months, whenever I’ve blown my nose (I do that often even in the springtime as I am an ice skater), I’ve had a tissue soiled with blood and not mucus. On a few occasions after becoming aware of this taste in the back of my throat or noticing just how bloody said tissue is, I’ve wondered about it for a split second, then pushed it to the back of my mind, I’m just a little more bloody than usual (whatever that’s supposed to mean), no big deal. All intense periods of bloody throat have been accompanied by acute pharyngitis: my throat hurts and I sound like a smoker and Ihavenoideawhy.
Oh.
Hm.
She comes back out with a box of tissues and tells me to take them on the bus. I do so, mortified to walk through the halls looking such a disaster. Everything is spinning, maybe it’s a dream… I hope. I step on the bus and see the eyes of each of my friends widen. Liz, there’s blood ALL OVER YOU! What’s going on?! You’re gonna die! (I didn’t believe for a second the dying part, I think they just added it in for dramatic effect.) I don’t know, this is a really bad nosebleed, I never get nosebleeds, I don’t know what to do. I sit down and lean my head towards my lap and cry, God can You please just stop my nose from bleeding. The entire bus watches to see if the bleeding stops, but in fact, it does not.. My friend sitting next to me tells me to call one of my parents, but none of them are remotely close to where I am. Not having any idea what to do, I call my step mom and tell her frantically I’m having a really bad nosebleed oh my gosh this is really bad I don’t know what to do. (I’ve been known to sweat the small stuff just a tad.) She tells me to get off at the elementary school; she’ll find me a ride. I do so and my friend escorts me to the nurse’s office. The nurse stops the bleeding temporarily, only for it to start again five minutes later. She puts some stuff up there, and finally, it stops. I look at my watch again: one hour since I first noticed blood on my hand. I can breathe. The nurse gives me a ride home, and I sleep. For two hours.
I just told you a dramatic soap-opera version of a teenage girl getting a bloody nose. But it really actually went like that.
Initially after the incident, I thought up a million and one reasons why it occured with a logical, instinctual rebuttal to each. I have a cold (I’ve had far worse colds with no trace of blood on the tissues). It’s genetic, I’m prone to nosebleeds (my dad is prone to nosebleeds, but it’s been going on his whole life. I don’t remember the last time I got one). I’m an ice skater (I haven’t been on the ice since Saturday, you’d think if it was because of that my nose would start bleeding on the ice).
My esophagus has endured countless blows by stomach acid and diet coke; I have an eating disorder. My esophagus is irritated and it’s bleeding into my throat and thus, my nose.
No rebuttal to that one. To my dismay, my therapist agreed.
But wait… I was just kidding. I didn’t really mean to get sick.
I have heard, and I’m sure you have too, a lot of anorexic and bulimic girls telling their story explain, “It started out as just a diet; I just wanted to lose five pounds. I wanted to look like the girls in magazines. I really didn’t mean for it to get so out of control. Then people started noticing, and they asked me about it, and I told them no, I didn’t have a problem, it was just a diet, dammit. I still thought I was fat, after all. I was wrong.” That phrase practically plays on recording in my mind I’ve heard it so much. But I am not one of those girls.
My eating disorder did not start out as a diet at all, although I did/do have body image issues. I’ve never been one to give a rat’s ass about what all the celebrities look like or how they lost ten pounds in two weeks. I knew as early as a month into my addiction that I had a problem and I was sick and it wasn’t going away and I needed help. I never said to anyone, “It’s not a problem. I can stop whenever I want,” because I knew that wasn’t true. No, I told people, “I’m scared I’m going to be one of those girls in the hospitals with the feeding tubes, but don’t worry, I’m not even close to that point of sickness…yet.” I knew that if I kept up with my behaviors I would face a myriad of medical issues, and at the time, I was okay with that.
And then my body shows me that it is alive when it reacts to my abuse (what a concept). I say no, surely my body is not really here, I couldn’t have hurt it that much, but wait coughcoughexcuseme, um oh, bright red blood splatters on my sleeve. It sinks in - my body will forever bear the mark of a former bulimic. And I’m not okay with it.
I have the reaction similar to that of a teenage girl who’s had premarital sex and has just learned she has a viral STD. It cannot be cured, she will have it for the rest of her life, and she will give it to anyone she wants to have sex with in the future (not very many men want to marry a woman knowing in doing so they are going to contract an STD). She says ohh, that’s why God didn’t want me to do that. I guess I should have listened.
There is permanent damage on my esophagus; my esophagus is bleeding. I realize that that is only a minor malfunction compared to all the more severe permanent damages I could have. But it’s irreversible, I can’t go back now. And the worst part of all this is, I did it to myself.
But God works through severed limbs (Bethany Hamilton), so He must work through bleeding esophagi (plural form, I googled it). He made David a ruler, so He must make Liz something special. He can, and He will. He takes the ashes of my sin that He’s burned with His fire and He makes them into beauty. I think that’s really cool.
So I thank Him once again for being so awesome, even through all this (and I realize I’m more upset about it than it probably seems I should be). He is so good.
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The straight facts on Judgement Day
This may be a little late, and I’m much too tired to be writing right now, but I think this is really important - SO MANY things are floating around and we need to get the facts straight. I don’t know a whole lot about Harold Camping or Family Radio, but I understand what he’s “prophesied” and what his basis is behind that. If you’d like more info on that, I’d encourage you to read my friend’s brother’s blog post on it - http://deeperfaith.wordpress.com/2011/05/19/will-jesus-return-on-may-21-2011/. My purpose of this post is to state clearly what the Bible actually says about all this. (Warning: Some of the biblical truths about the rapture can be hard to swallow.) I don’t usually get into these kind of theological debates but this is not really a debatable issue - if the Bible is really truth and is really meant for the average man (which it is, both of those things), then this is false prophecy, and that is not something to mess around with.
First of all, the time of the Lord’s return is not something that can or was ever intended to be prophesied. Matthew 24:36 says, “But about that day or hour no one knows, not even the angels in heaven, nor the Son, but only the Father.” There’s really no room for misinterpretation on that one; it’s crystal clear. My first reaction when I heard about all this silliness was to say, “We can’t say it is going to happen on this day and we can’t say it’s not, because NO ONE knows,” because of that verse. But then I remembered Matthew 24:44: “So you also must be ready, because the Son of Man will come at an hour when you do not expect him.” Since many people are fully expecting the Lord to come tomorrow, He is not.
Something that happened after I put these two verses together that is important to know: Satan tried reasoning lies with me, saying, “Well if you say it’s not going to happen tomorrow, then you won’t expect it, and then He’ll come and YOU’LL be proven wrong.” But you see Satan was doing what he knows best when he said this to me: trying to get me to think that I am the ONLY person in this world. No, I am not expecting His return tomorrow and neither are many other people I know. However, Jesus was speaking to all believers in this verse and many, many Christians are falsely swayed right now to expect His appearance tomorrow. So no, May 21st, 2011 is not Judgement Day.
A good many people say we are in the end times (which we very well may be, I’m not saying we’re not) because “the world has never been this bad.” Right. But the world has always been at that state of never being “this bad” because it is always increasingly worsening. The world will keep getting worse and worse until finally it’s at its WORST - and we don’t know what that is. It might be this, or it might be in a thousand years, I don’t know. But that is the basic reason why people have thought since the epistle times that the rapture was to occur any moment.
Despite all this we must remember that Judgement Day is coming. We don’t know when but it will happen. It’s easy to be left behind, but it’s just as easy to depart with everyone else. We are fighting an interesting battle here and now, which you can probably see; it can be won by placing your trust in Jesus Christ. And then, no matter WHEN this day comes, you will not fear your destiny.
It is also important to note that Harold Camping is sinning. False prophecy is a sin and a manifestation of pride and God does not take it lightly. Like the first verse says, not even Jesus Christ knows. Who are we to say we know of His arrival when the Messiah does not even attempt to know the scheduled time of His very own return? I don’t know about you, but that seem pretty prideful to me.
Sunday, I think, is going to be an interesting day filled with different emotions - depression, anxiousness, humor, anger. People may wonder why they were “left behind,” make fun of the situation, or grow angry at Christians. But there is comfort for all of that. Nobody will be departing tomorrow if not for death, so there need not be any worries of being left behind. This is really not funny because God takes it seriously. And 99% of Christians believe this is BS just as much as I do, so it really does not make sense to spew anger to all the Christians; that is a geeralization. If you feel angry or depressed, please first talk to me, and if that doesn’t work, be angry and depressed with Harold Camping. Although we do mess up a lot, this particular issue is not a product of God or most of the Christians.
I hope that makes sense! If you have any questions, you are welcome to ask me. Have a good… weekend!
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On being sixteen
Today is my sixteenth birthday.
I’ve never thought specifically about this day, but ever since I was 5 I’ve wanted to be older, and that desire has never left me. No matter how old I’ve been, I’ve always wanted to be older, better, greater, stronger, wiser, prettier. Thinner. A different person, somebody who had it all together. How age is to give me these things, I don’t know.
I remember, when I was old enough to walk and talk but too young to have common sense, imagining myself as an adult. I created in my mind an image of an average height, not-too-fat but-not-too-skinny woman with thick, long and flowing chocolate brown hair, flawless peach-toned skin, strikingly gorgeous eyes, bright red lipstick and C-cup boobs. Early 30’s, give or take. No glasses, blindingly white teeth. I imagined this woman wearing a grey turtleneck, writing her life away and creating masterpiece paintings every day. Maybe she’s an actress, maybe she’s in movies sometimes. She’d be quiet, but she’d have a lot to say if you asked. That woman was me. Elizabeth, the Grown-Up. I stated to my father, “Daddy, I know what I’m going to look like when I’m a Grown-Up.” I remember him having an artist friend in Jersey that he would take me to go visit with sometimes. One day I asked her if she could draw a picture of me, and to my surprise now but not at the time, she accepted. It took much longer than I expected - I thought she’d be able to just whip something up magically, she was an artist, after all. I don’t know how long it actually took, but I remember it seeming like at least three hours. I was so excited and couldn’t contain myself. I knew that when she turned the canvas around it would reveal the future Elizabeth I had so vividly created in my head. I felt like I was already that woman, that was me, some people just think I’m a kid but of course Meg (I think that was her name) won’t, she’s smarter than that, she’s an artist. To my utter dismay, the canvas turned out to reveal a baby-teeth-showing four-year-old little girl with shaggy dirty-blonde hair wearing a 90’s sweater. I was appalled. I don’t remember what I did with the drawing, I guess that part wasn’t important. But I know I don’t have it anymore.
I look back on this memory, and most others, as if they didn’t actually happen, it wasn’t real, it’s just something I’ve imagined, a story I made up in my head. But they must have happened, or I would be crazy.
When I was four, I wanted to be seven. When I turned seven, I wanted to be thirteen. When I turned thirteen, I wanted to be sixteen. And now I’m sixteen, and I want to be eighteen. Then I’ll want to be twenty-one. And then I’ll marry that husband and have those kids and write that book and become that nurse, and then I won’t give a crap anymore, I’ll cringe when I wake up on the eighteenth of May each year, another year older, ugh. Not this again. Lord, can You please just take me home already.
I never expected to turn 16 and have been hospitalized twice, in one partial program, two eating disorder programs, and ongoing therapy, psychiatric evaluations and nutritional counseling for years on end. I never expected to turn 16 and still be far from having my life together. I never expected to love Jesus as much as I do at the age of 16, but I do, and I love that about me. I never expected this day to be as boring, dull, and ordinary as it has been. But it has been, and I don’t care.
I tell people I am turning 16 today and they squeal. “Ohh, your sweet sixteen, oh my heavens!! That’s so cool, right?! How do you feel?!” To be honest, I don’t feel anything. Not excited, not sad, nothing. I will be a permitted driver soon. I have more job opportunities and get to tell people I’m sixteen and not fifteen when they ask my age. I’m slowly inching my way towards “freedom” (not the biblical one, the coming-of-age one). I get more responsibilities and more independence (that is, if my parents wake up and smell the coffee). Okay. That’s nice. Like, it really is, it’s cool. But not much else has changed.
I am still Elizabeth Marie Puffenberger, female, 5’2”, 136 pounds, date-of-birth 5-18-95, Caucasian, Christian - Protestant, diagnoses: 307.50 - eating disorder, unspecified; 296.3 - major depressive disorder, recurrent and severe. I am still the case study, the name on the labels of the charts in countless facilities. I am still the girl who had a panic attack every evening at precisely 6 pm in Horsham Clinic, who couldn’t survive a week outside its walls. I am still the girl who has screwed up countless relationships, deterred too many people from Christ by her actions, and done a number of other idiotic things. I am still the fat girl who never stops complaining about just how fat she really is.
But who cares about all that stuff, anyway? I am still God’s princess, His daughter. I am still a garden tended to by the master Gardener. I am still a woman after God’s own heart, the writer, the figure skater, the singer, the friend. I still love worshipping and serving the Lord more than anything, and I am still covered by the blood of the Lamb. Every word of Song of Songs is still talking about me. And that means more to me than any earthly thing.
I am not that woman I imagined - I am Liz, the Teenager. I am short and have a way too athletic body type. My hair is thick, long, and sometimes flowing, brown with some lingering blonde underneath, roots of my natural hair color, frizzy and curly. My complexion is nice, but I do get blemishes sometimes, and it’s not peach-toned - tanning turns out to be extremely painful because I have to get a second-degree sunburn before my skin tints in the slightest. My eyes are too small; I wear glasses, and look ugly with contacts. I wear makeup every day: Foundation. Black eyeliner, base color, crease color, gold on top, black mascara. Blush, bronzer, lip gloss. The only time I wear red lipstick is for synchro. My cup size is a B. My teeth aren’t disgusting, but they’re not fantastic either, sitting slumly in my mouth under the wear-and-tear glories of repeated burns by stomach acid and diet coke. I hardly ever wear turtlenecks - I find them uncomfortable. I wear my school uniform during the day and at night I’ll try to put together some kind of cute outfit, if it’s not skating attire. I write a lot, but not all day, and I can’t paint for my life. I am a horrible actress because I get the jitters whenever I try to say a line in a play. I talk way too much at times I’m not supposed to. I am Present Liz, not Future Elizabeth. I don’t think I’ll magically turn into her when I turn 30 either. I’ll be all that I just stated, in an older form. People aren’t caterpillars. And they never will be, but God works in us and makes us His. But I don’t think that woman is His.
This year was… weird. There was nothing stagnant about it. I turned fifteen on euphoria, and spent my summer walking on air and pavement at the same time. I relapsed horribly and did things I never thought I’d do. I believed too many lies and didn’t take God’s way out too many times. I failed, I learned, I grew, I regressed. I skated, I sang, I wrote, I ministered, I worked, I worshipped. I cried, I laughed, I danced, I jumped, I screamed, I talked - A LOT. I did research projects and algebra homework. I ate ice cream and saw Soul Surfer. I bought jewelry and new clothes, I changed schools and met new people. And I loved on those people, and I loved on the Lord. I traveled a lot, to places I’d never been before (Dominican Republic, California, Lake Placid) and to places I’d been year after year for the same event (Connecticut, Hershey). I made decisions, some better than others. And I wondered what the heck is wrong with me, I’m definitely crazy. Maybe I am. And I will continue on in this life and rejoice in the Lord. I will try my hardest to be patient in my aging and take it all one moment at a time and I will glorify the Lord. I will fall into pits I’ve never fallen into before and I will trust in the Lord. I will have unthinkable amounts of homework sometimes, panic attacks every minute some days, no second to pee through 12-hour night shifts at the hospital, and I will rest in the Lord. I will learn about my body, work on my character, respect my husband, speak the truth in love, and I will honor the Lord.
I still can’t wait to get my life started. Get married, have babies, work a lot, be a good example, have a martini once in a while. But, I guess (begrudgingly) I will wait out on these years. There’s something to experience, I’m sure. So thank You, Lord, for bring me through these 16 years even though they felt like 30. Thank You for my development and my struggles. Thank You for carrying me through it all. And I will thank You forevermore.
Chat with 1 note
I don't usually do the let's-post-our-conversation-on-tumblr-for-the-world-to-see thing, but this just makes me squeal in delight at the sheer awesomeness of having a best friend.
- Me: Well hello there!
- Madina: HELLO JEFFREY
- Me: MY NAME IS NOT JEFFREY YOU IDIOT!
- Madina: IS IT CRASANTHONAM?
- Me: Um.. Maybe. I forgot.
- Madina: It's okay... would you like a lollipop from the neighborhood rapist?
- Me: Thanks, but no thanks.
- Madina: I love them...
- Me: Yeah, they're not really my cup of tea, if ya know what I mean. ;)
- Madina: :|
- Me: So uh... I saw this thing on the news channel, called "synchro."
- Madina: Synchro?? Sounds like a salad dressing.
- Me: It sounds to me like a nationality!
- Madina: Well... what is it?
- Me: Um, I don't know. I got so confused and turned the television off.
- Madina: Well shucks! That sounds like it was a lot!
- Me: Yes, it was quite overwhelming. Say, what are you doing say, this Saturday?
- Madina: Oh.. Oh... OH MY.. I HAVE... SYNCHRO!!!!!!!
- Me: Well hey there Miss Muquit, I'm a little confused now. Are you eating salad dressing on Saturday?
- Madina: I THINK SO!
- Me: OH, WELL THAT SHOULD BE FUN, SHOULDN'T IT!
- Madina: I GUESS SO! HU HOE!
- Me: WATCH YOUR MOUTH!
Photo reblogged from LET'S BUILD A CASTLE IN THE AIR with 620 notes
YESSSSSS does anyone know what this is from iloveit.
Source: leavingjustamemory
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So many words to say, but I’m opting for silence.
I’m not quite sure how to articulate my state of being right now. I’m in the limbo between earth’s versions of heaven and hell (not to be confused with the actual everlasting life and eternal torment, which are both very different from anything here) that so many thousands of people recovering from eating disorders fail to ever come out of because, for each their own irrational reasons, they have decided to entertain the notion that it is impossible. Although I do feel that I could be in this place for a long time, probably years, I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that my feet will not be caught, or even in, the snare forever, because I’ve seen and heard that there is hope and there is healing and forgiveness. And that it doesn’t come from anywhere too difficult to find or get to… it comes at the foot of the cross.
Blessed are those living in the in-between phase, for grace like rain will fall down on them at the foot of the cross.
Woe to those not believing in miracles, for they will be stuck in their misery forever.
And I will be here and live in this moment and I will rejoice, for the Lord has won my heart.
This place of uncertainty is very widely spread and varies from person to person. It can be using symptoms every day but not wanting to. It can be never using symptoms but wanting to. It can be getting tired of throwing up and all of its glories, and saying okay well I’ll give it a break for a little while, forcing yourself to follow your meal plan even though you cringe at every bite. It can be asking the Lord to mend your broken relationships, watching Him do so, and waiting for recovery to fall into place. It can be finally telling people that you struggle and asking them to be supportive at mealtimes, speaking up when you’re eating dinner and a person who will remain unnamed starts going on about how many grams of carbs and sugar are in carrots, and why most diets don’t let you eat them. It can be holding your sweet 16 at the Melting Pot, not having any idea why you’re doing that and being terribly afraid of your very own party, but still planning on celebrating and having a grand old time with the support of your lovely friend named Allie (true story, this girl right here). It can be having those “moments of crisis” every day and instead of saying okay, well it’s no use trying to stop this now, pulling out the verses that you’ve hidden in your heart, resist the devil (James 4:7), forget what is behind and strain toward what is ahead (Phillipians 3:13), honor God with your body (1 Corinthians 6:20). It can be not wanting this for yourself at all but looking forward to the days that you will want it for yourself and the people you want it for, and holding on to that. It can really be a lot of things. And it progresses, and it gets better and better, until finally you are free and you say wait, what just happened? I thought I was a hopeless case, forever a bulimic. And you praise God.
So please, please, I beg of you, be encouraged by this (or rather, I beg God to encourage you with this). I was so numb to it all. I heard it all the time and it did not faze me, even though I knew I had known it before. But it’s good stuff, and it’s truth. So keep looking forward and pressing on because you will be out of purgatory in just a moment.
Photo reblogged from Looking for a Savior in these Dirty Streets with 1,109 notes
Source: Flickr / lavandulah
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