Lee Wolfe Blum - Table in the Darkness: A Healing Journey Through an Eating Disorder

InterVarsity Press
P.O. Box 1400,
Downers Grove, IL 60515-1426
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2013 by Lee Wolfe Blum

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from InterVarsity Press.

InterVarsity Pressis the book-publishing division of InterVarsity Christian Fellowship/USA, a movement of students and faculty active on campus at hundreds of universities, colleges and schools of nursing in the United States of America, and a member movement of the International Fellowship of Evangelical Students. For information about local and regional activities, write Public Relations Dept., InterVarsity Christian Fellowship/USA, 6400 Schroeder Rd., P.O. Box 7895, Madison, WI 53707-7895, or visit the IVCF website atwww.intervarsity.org .

All Scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from THE HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION, NIV Copyright 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.

While all stories in this book are true, some names and identifying information in this book have been changed to protect the privacy of the individuals involved.

Back cover photo of the author courtesy of heatherfenskephotography.com

Cover design: Cindy Kiple

Image: woman with bandage over mouth: Fuse/Getty Images

ISBN 978-0-8308-7186-5 (digital)
ISBN 978-0-8308-4308-4 (print)

To my beloved husband and amazing boys,

I love you to the moon and back.

To the reader:

My hope is that the description of

Gods love in my life will give you the

freedom and the courage to discover

... Gods love in yours.

H ENRI NOUWEN
Here and Now: Living in the Spirit

What did you take? Do you know how much? What did you take?

The booming drum of his voice beat strong against my ears, What did you take? What did you take?

My throat, a box locked by a sharp pain, unable to be opened. Another voice, a different voice, was above me and asking the same question, barking at me: You need to tell us what you took. We want to help you.

I remember: I dont want to be helped.

I want to return to the space of darknessback in the ocean of itfloating freely into nothing. The pain begins to slip away, and I reach back to the edges of its humid air. I feel it washing over me and the words falling away in the distance.

Lee? They shake me. Lee. What kind of pills did you take?

Stop. Stop grabbing my arm, I scream inside. Stop talking and let me be.

But I am jolted from my nirvana of dark nothingness. A voice sounds familiar. Whose voice? Heavy with fear. Chris. Chriss voice.

My eyes open. I focus up on Chris towering above me. Why is he here? Where is here? Inside my heart punches at my chest when I see tears rolling down his face. Why is he crying?

I want to sleep, I try to scream, but the sound refuses to come out of my mouth. So I constrict every part of me and push the sound out my prisoned throat: LEAVE ME ALONE!

The words are a garbled slur of incomprehensible speech, unheard.

I close my eyes in defeat and swim back in. Behind my eyes, I pass the dark into another layer with soft, blue ocean. I am free.

I hear my voice, quiet this time, a relaxed whisper pleading, Please let me be.

I sat onstage faced by a red sea of hats atop the heads of the hundreds of high school graduates. Families and friends watched in the stands, escorting us through our rite of passage.

My report card was filled with success. And I was counting.

Papers shaking in my trembling hands, holding the speech I poured over and over until perfect. I closed my eyes and sipped in a breath of the muggy Kansas heat. I lightly brushed my blond hair, finally long, behind my shoulders as I listenedexcited and nervousto the other speeches. Being chosen to speak was an exclamation mark at the end of my constant striving to prove something. To prove I was not chained down by my familys expectation of who I was or should be. To prove that, while they were busy moving me to new houses and new schools, I was overcoming. I was proving that the voices telling me I wasnt good enough, that I didnt measure up, didnt affect me.

I didnt know those voices would follow me.

The story I told myself was simple: college and then Broadway lights flashing my name. Dad was skeptical, constantly asking, How on earth do you expect to make money in theater? I ignored his hesitation.

The petite principal peered over the lectern, her voice echoing in the speakers, The oration this evening will be given by Ms. Lee Wolfe. I lift my eyes and spot my family sitting poised on the metal bleachers. They are proud of me. I see it in their smiles held wide. They smile and they look good, because looking good is important.

I see Mom with her blue eyes and soft smile. Mom knew how to sew patches where I made holes.

The split-level, butter-yellow house on 100th street in Kansas was my favorite home, the one I lived in the longest. A cozy, paneled room was where we lived, but we didnt call it a living room. It was a TV room, though it should have been called a waiting room. I did most of my waiting there, listening for The Voice while pretty ladies and men talked and kissed onscreen.

Lots of kissing.

Half-day kindergarten allowed me precious time alone with Mom on the long, brown couch while my older brother and sister stayed at school. But the kissing on the TV pulled her away from me. I was wiggly, always wiggly. I would move around the couch, trying to sit still: legs underneath like Mom, legs crossed, legs dangling over the big couch. I waited for The Voice to tell me about the sands and the hourglass: my cue that it was okay to talk, my cue to have Mom back from TV-land.

A large photo of me hung on the wall. I hated it. Mom and Dad said it was cute. The photo of me shows my bright blonde hair sticking out like a baby chick, my mouth wide open screaming, and then there were those cheeksfat cheeks that carried my face. My brothers photo, on the other hand, was adorablean image of him in a tuxedo when he was a ring bearer in a wedding.

My sister Kristins photo hung on the other wall: an angelic image with her soft, blondish hair spread beautifully on her shoulders and a sweet smile on her face. Her hair could swoop over her shoulders just like Jan Brady. I wanted long hair like hers, but Mom always insisted I keep mine short.

She sat next to me, her shoulders back, her head up, her hair feathered perfectly on the sides in blond wisps that mingled gently with her golden curls. She is beautiful. Everyone says so. I always thought she was the prettiest Mom I had ever seen, except in the morning when she first woke up and smelled like stinky breath. Now her long, thin legs were tucked, and she held her sewingmy jeans with the knees ripped out againin her lap. She sewed patches where I created holes.