Whole
I stand outside the chapel doors but can’t quite make myself go in. Normally, Sunday is my day of rest. But not today.
My students have just turned in their first batch of papers. Narratives. For the most part, the papers recount tales of athletic glory and dating failures—trite stories that make me chuckle or groan, depending on how they’re written. But then there are the others.
Members of the congregation sing about sunshine in their souls; I opt for silence and a seat on the stained couch in the foyer.
The stories haunt me—the ones that are hidden in the stack of narratives, just waiting for me to find them. Stories of self-loathing. Anorexia. Bulimia. Suicide.
I tell my students to avoid serious topics. They’re difficult to handle, I say. Serious stories are hard to “show, not tell.” But they’re hard to read too.
If my colleagues receive secret confessions from their students, they don’t mention it. I wonder if my students see through me somehow—if they see my past and it makes them feel safe.***
I was a military brat, which meant moving every two to four years. I hated being new. The first day at school I was stared at, dissected on the spot for flaws. I had plenty.
The last move took place the summer before sixth grade. I stood outside Mr. Corby’s classroom, desperately hoping that somewhere beyond the tan door was a new friend. But that was a long shot.
As the door opened, I stood, frozen, wishing I had never come. These kids stared at me hard, daring me to cross the threshold—something I only did when Mr. Corby pulled me into the room.
“I’d like you to meet our new student,” Mr. Corby said. I saw grins and hands covering whisperings I knew were about me. I wanted to sink into the floor. To be invisible.
As usual, the teasing started at recess. The cool, the popular, and the beautiful gathered for games on the playground. I stood alone by the bathrooms. I knew where I was—the loser wall. It’s where I always stood, alone, the first few months at a new school.
Two blondes led a group of cool-popular-beautiful girls to where I stood. Blonde #1 was the ringleader. I knew because she brushed hard against my shoulder before getting a drink. The others soon formed a tight circle—tight enough to keep me out, but close enough so I could hear.
“She dresses so weird,” Blonde #1 whispered loudly while giggles shook through the group. “Doesn’t she know those pants make her look fat?”
“Yeah. Look at her thighs,” Blonde #2 chimed in. “Lard butt.”
The circle giggled again as the bell rang.
By the time school let out for the day, the name had stuck. I was Lard Butt. The big fat loser of Golden Empire Elementary.
***
I flip through my scriptures, trying to find something to read. My book falls open to the story of Laban. A story of Nephi’s faith and courage. But all I read over and over is the part where Laban’s head gets chopped off. The sword. The blood. And I picture one of my students the way I’ve pictured her the last two days. Alone in her room, razor blade in hand.
I had to make comments when I read the paper: “A very painful and emotional narrative experience you’ve shared. You’ve done a good job of re-creating the experience.” Too good, I thought. “However, the thesis could be much stronger. The point of change isn’t clear—you seem the same at the beginning of the narrative as you are at the end.”
I hated myself as I wrote the words, but what else could I say?
I usually have time to prepare for these narratives. Eating disorders are easy to spot, but this is my first experience with cutting, and I hadn’t noticed the long-sleeved shirts my student wore during an unusually hot fall. And now, sitting outside the chapel, I feel helpless like I always do.
I’ve been to the counselors’ presentations for faculty. I have pamphlets to refer any student to their office. I’ve been fully equipped with the tools of the system. But I wonder if the system works.
The first time I encountered an eating disorder narrative, I did exactly what I was told to do: I confronted the author in my office, trying to be as empathetic as possible. “I need to report this,” I said, looking at my student who refused to make eye contact. “You need some professional help coping with this problem.”
She sat wringing her hands. No response.
I handed her the pamphlet. “You can make an appointment yourself or I can call. Either way, something has to be done,” I said. “I hope you understand that.”
I thought she nodded, but she walked out of my office and never came back to class. I e-mailed, telling her I wished she would return. The one paper wasn’t worth sacrificing her entire grade.
But a grade means little when you feel so much pain.
I tried other tactics with future students: counseling pamphlets attached to the back page of a paper, subtle comments here or there. A note. I want to save them, to rescue them from themselves. I want to tell them about my friends who spent years trying to overcome these disorders, only to deal with ensuing health problems.
One friend told me how lucky I was. “You were the smart one. You never got caught up in this mess.”
I nodded but didn’t tell her the truth.
***
“Sticks and stones,” my mother always said. “They’ll never hurt you.”
But they did. They hurt worse than the sting of having my head pushed into a locker every day before gym. Physical pain went away. But the words . . . those stayed forever.
About the time Stewart Smalley was telling Saturday Night Live fans they were “good enough and smart enough,” I stood in front of my bathroom mirror saying my own daily mantra: “You are ugly, fat, and stupid.”
So I tried. I stuck my finger down my throat, but as soon as the gag reflex kicked in I had to stop. I hated being fat and ugly, but I hated throwing up more.
I tried the no-food fad diet instead. Why not? We were taught to fast at church—encouraged to do it. There was no sin in that.
My one attempt ended at lunch. They were serving hamburgers and fries for lunch, and I was no match for the smell.
I was an eating disorder wannabe. I couldn’t control my weight or my face, so I gave up. I was ugly-fat-and-stupid, and there was nothing I could do about it.
***
I know I am about to lose it, so I prepare to leave as the sacrament hymn begins. No need to add embarrassment to misery. But something about the familiar notes keeps me in my seat. I think the words before they are sung, and the tears I’ve been holding back stream freely down my face.
I stand all amazed at the love Jesus offers me . . .
It’s a bittersweet feeling, surrendering to love. Sweet, because I know it’s true: I am a daughter of a Heavenly Father who loves me. The first time I realized I really believe that, I knew my past couldn’t win. It will never go away, of course. I still see bullies behind me in my bathroom mirror, and sometimes I hear them shouting at me after a bad breakup. But the pillar of light always appears, chasing those ghosts away. I am a daughter of God.
I just wish my students knew that too.
I cry harder for these hurting students of mine. I want to gather them up and let them feel what I feel now, to let them know their bodies aren’t the enemy.
But I know from experience that is something they must discover for themselves, in their own way and in their own time.
As the congregation praises and adores at the mercy seat, I kneel before it in my heart. I pray for my students—for their pain, loneliness, and heartbreak. I have been there. And as I pray, I know He has been there too. This is not my cross to carry alone. It has been carried by the only one who can save. So I put my students in His hands, offering to serve in any way I can.
The hymn ends, and so does my prayer. When I eventually open my eyes, one of the priesthood holders in my ward shifts awkwardly in front of me, sacrament tray in hand. I see the bread and can’t help but think of another body that was once bruised, broken, and bleeding.
As I lift a small piece of bread from the tray, I feel His love filling the empty places in my heart, bringing back the peace that healed an ugly-fat-and-stupid girl not so long ago.
And I smile.
Kimberly Parry received her BA and MA in English from BYU and has taught religion and English courses at BYU and UVU. Currently, she spends her time writing and being a stay-at-home mom.
