The Breathe Before the Big Plunge

There was quite the interview process to become a Rotary exchange student. As Anne had told me, two people did show up at my house to interview me. Their names were Michelle and Bill. At the end of the interview they gave me a twenty-two-page application to fill out.

Then there were two more interviews, one at a district level and one regionally. At the regional level, they also interviewed my parents again to see what they had to say about my habits, personality, abilities, and if they were really willing to support me as I traveled internationally.

I felt good about the interviews, but was still nervous about the acceptance letter.

It came in the mail a few weeks after our district interview and read:
"Julie Dean, you have been accepted to act as a representative of the Orangevale Rotary Club and as a citizen of the United States of America as an exchange student in the years of 2009-2010."

A rush of relief filled my body quickly followed by an overwhelming excitement. It was real. I was going. I was going to leave this place and find something new.

There was no country listed in the letter. That wouldn't come until our final orientation. We were allowed to write down our top three preferences mine were in this order: Japan, Argentina, and Belgium. Completely different places, for completely different reasons, but all me in some way or another.

Japan was my dream though. I had, had so many good experiences with people from that place. And it just felt so different. If I was going somewhere, I wanted it to be no where like America. I wanted to really jump into something different. I wanted a challenge.

Finally the day of our final orientation came. They lined us up like ducks in a row, sat us down and started to pass our envelopes. They made us wait an entire minute with it in our hands, having us all make final guesses. Then they counted down, "Five, four, three, two, one!"

We ripped open our papers. And there it was written in big letters: JAPAN.

I screamed. I bounced out of my seat and showed my parents and any one else who would look. I was going to Japan. I was going to my place, my new home.

They told us it would be difficult. They told us it would be different. Not good, not bad, just different. That was our mantra. Then, they gave us a little book called, "The Exchange Students Survival Kit." And sent us on our way.

A Taste

Days and weeks passed. I continued to think about what Erik had told me. I started to read in the New Testament, not a lot, just every once in awhile, at night.

I would lay on my stomach on the floor of my bedroom with the light on. I didn't understand everything that I was reading, but for some reason the words connected with me. I was feeling things. I started to be able to put Jesus Christ into the shape of an actual person, who walked and talked and thought and listened. I started to see how little things mattered less than I thought, and with that my ability to stop myself from superficially expelling the spot increased. It increased because I realized that if Christ was a real person, then, he cared about what I was doing, and he didn't want this for me.

 I got all the way through Galatians before I stopped.

An opportunity had presented itself to me, and it took over my every waking thought.

There was a boy from Belgium, his name was Johan. He was an exchange student who was being sponsored by the Rotary Club to stay in the United States for a whole year. He was a good friend to me. Near the end of his stay, while we were getting ready for finals he made me promise that I would do an exchange. "You would love it. You can go anywhere, you can leave here," he said. And so I said, "Yes, I promise, I'll go."

So, a few months later when my teacher announced that the Rotary Club was having a meeting about selecting exchange students, and that she would be offering extra credit to anyone who went, I knew exactly where I was going to be at lunch the next day.

In the meeting they talked to about how the Rotary Club helps students to fulfill their dreams of going international. They would pay the cost of housing and food all we had to do was pay for the plane ticket.

They also told us that although we would go to the same school all year long, that throughout the year we would be required to change host families at least 3 times. This was so that we would be able to experience more of the culture and to ease the burdens of the host families we stayed with. As Anne, the woman representing Rotary, spoke I felt something inside of me start to grow. This kind of bubble weld up inside of me, and I when she asked who was serious about going on an exchange, I raised my hand.

They gave me an informational sheet, and said that they would send someone from the club to my home to interview me and my parents later that week.

When I went home that night I told my parents that I was going to be an exchange student and they told me if I could pay for the ticket myself I could go.

And that's how I made the decision that got me my current path to change.

The Beginning

I wasn't a bad person. I was just trying to get by. Everyone is just trying to get by, right?

I thought about stopping. I even talked to a couple people about it. A friend at work and a friend at school, and then every once and awhile I would talk to my brother-in-law to be on the phone. My sister had asked me to keep an eye on him while she was away, and as I fifteen-year-old girl it was good to have someone to talk to who I felt was so far away that they couldn't tell anyone my secret.

Everyone had about the same reaction. "You know that's bad for you right?" Yep. Of course I did. Everyone told me that they were "there for me," and that I didn't need to do it. Yes. I know. I don't. But. I do. " You know you should call me every time you want to throw up, and I'll help you." Yeah. I know. And I wont. I don't know why, but I wont.

My Brother-in-law was the only one who had a different answer. "Jules, you know you can talk to God about this, right?" I guess the idea had crossed my mind, but I didn't really want to talk to him about it. I wasn't sinning why should I tell Him?

"If you look at the Savior's life, and read about His Atonement, it will help you to use it to overcome this." I heard the words, and I felt like I understood them, but I don't think that I ever really comprehended what they meant. Erik didn't know about the spot. He didn't know why I started in the first place, but for some reason I trusted him.

I trusted him when he said that this didn't just affect me. It affected all my relationships with my family, with my friends, with my teachers. They didn't know about the spot either, and I didn't have to tell them. But... I wasn't being completely honest. I was wearing a mask, and letting my desires to "just not get any fatter," change who I was. I had become quieter. I wasn't happy anymore. I had this need for attention. I just needed it.

But, in talking to Erik, I had learned to trust at least one person with some of this. Some of how I felt. Some of what I was thinking. And if he said that God could help, I believed that He could, even if I didn't understand how.

I had heard that the Savior had suffered for more than just our sins. That he could help us with our heartaches. But, I just didn't know how.

My Little Box

All souls experience pain. Each one has their own experience with anguish. Some souls try to ignore the hurt; they push it away, tie it down, and hide it in corners far away where they feel it can never find them again. Others let it haunt them; let it sit next to them and whisper in their ear, reminding them over and over again that they hurt, they hurt, and there is no end. There are others who put their hurt in a box on the desk and go about their daily lives doing all that is needed to be done in the day although, every once an awhile the box rattles. So, they wait until the night, then take it out again to listen, to look, to relive, and then to put it back in the box again before the day light comes to find out their secret. But, there are very few souls who are strong enough to do something else, something different. 

I wouldn't categorize myself as a particularly picky person. When you ask me about my favorite movies, books, magazines, foods, my answer is never concrete. I will tell you I like "lotsa stuff," and have no real preference. I am not one to tell you to take the onions off the sandwich just for me. Even if I don't really like onions, I can tolerate them, in one sandwich, on one day, if it will cause you less trouble. I don't mind. 

This goes for other things in life besides just, food. I like people to have their way, and their time, and I don't like to cause people extra effort, hurt, or expense. It is just in my nature. 

I like to make people happy. And I like to be happy. 

Which is why I think the idea of telling someone about what's happened to me is so difficult. I don't really want people to think or feel badly for me. And I never wanted anyone to know, because I thought I could deal with it myself, alone. 

Besides, I was normal. Better than normal. I had good friends in High School, I was a senior favorite in fact, voted "friendliest." I gave the closing speech at my graduation, rapped it actually, and I even spent a year in Japan as an exchange student. People liked me and I liked them. I could interact with and work and understand them. I also felt understood, most of the time, except when people tried to get into my box. When some topics were brought up, I would get uncomfortable and back away, I closed my eyes for a second or two and tried to relax and let it go. 

But the feeling never went away. 

This spot. The black one inside of me. The one marked "unclean." It just stayed there sometimes in my stomach other times on my heart, all the time whispering, "unworthy, unworthy, unworthy, dirty." I would keep myself busy all the time just to make it be quiet. When I found myself alone, I talked to myself so I didn't have to hear its constant taunting. But, no matter what I did, it stayed all the same. 

After awhile I decided that I had to get rid of it somehow, not just cover it up. I tried to scrub it out in the shower, but no matter how hard I scrubbed at my skin, I still felt dirty. Finally, I decided if I couldn't get to it externally, I had to get it from the inside. 

I can't remember exactly when the first time I decided to throw up was. 

I think I'd come home from a party where I'd eaten too much. Blotted, I just wanted the feeling to go away. So, I took a spoon from the kitchen drawer, locked the door behind me, and knelt down in front of the toilet. The first time is always the hardest. It took more than a few attempts. But, as the days passed it got easier and easier. It started to happen on its own. That's when I knew I had gone too far. 

In my head, I made up this story, that it wasn't about losing weight really, it was just about not gaining any. Control. Balance. And I felt so relieved every time. My body so exhausted, I couldn't feel the spot. I thought it was gone. I was clean for a moment or two. But, I lived for those moments. 

A Small Window to the Big Picture

" Isabel Hernandez, right?" I say looking at the place where there
should be a door but there is not, instead there is a slab of wood
with hinges. Sister Van Langen nods, jiggling the rough medal that
acts as a handle. With a little force the slab of wood swings forward
and she ducks inside. I follow, slipping into the space that is left
behind. Inside there are creaky wooden stairs and a smell that reminds
me of something I can't quite get a grasp on. As we ascend up steps I
think about the reality that they might just fall through on us, I
grab ahold of the bannister and it wiggles, I let go. At the top of
the steps there is another slab of wood pretending to be a door with a
peep hole that has been scratched out with permanent marker.

We knock. No one answers, but there is scuffling inside. I look at
Sister Van Langen and she holds up her hand as if to tell me, "just
wait." The door opens a crack, and I see a tan little face peaking at
us. The door is quickly shut again.
" Mari, it's us, las misioneras." Sister Van langen calls. There is
more scuffling inside and muffled voices. "Mama, las misioneras!" A
minute later the door opens, and there is a small hispanic woman
standing there. She is pretty, but looks tired, I can tell that life
has worn her down at the edges. She pulls up her v-neck and looks away
from us embarrassed. "Passen Hermanas." She says, and lets us slip
past her into the kitchen. There are pots on the stove full of some
kind of mush most of it crusted onto the sides with age. The wall
paper is all but non-existent, peeling from the walls, and in between
the cracks I see a flash of disappearing antenna as a cockroach is
scared off by our entrance. The floor is full of stains and dust.
There are random bits of clothing scattered here and there and an
empty taquila bottle in the corner, she ushers us into the living
room, pulling out metal chairs for us to sit on. There is nothing in
the room except a dirty mattress with no sheets. Sitting on the bed
there are five more little children, all dark haired, tan skinned, and
barely clothed. The oldest comes in with us and also sits on the bed.
She looks to be about 13, she like her mother looks pretty but tired,
a piece of her black hair is cut longer than the rest, I can tell that
she has done it herself. Looking at how the rest of the children it
seems she has cut their hair also, making a variety of lengths and
shapes.The little ones jump up swarming around us, grabbing on to my
skirt and tugging at my hands. They want us to play with them. They
want us to love them. Isabel shoos them away, "No les toques!" There
is agitation in her voice, and the children drop back down to the
mattress. She stares down at them for a moment and then retreats to a
corner of the room.

I look at them. Something inside of me starts to hurt.

We start to teach them, we talk about Christ, we tell them stories.
They start to smile- there is still light in all this darkness. All
the while I cannot help but look at them.

"Hermana, podria usar su bano?" I ask. Isabel looks a little taken
back, she looks at the oldest daughter, Mari, and makes a face.
Finally she points back at the kitchen and nods. I leave my things,
stepping back into the kitchen I open the only other door in the
house. As I walk in I find a small bathtub with a dripping shower head
and a mountain of sopping wet clothes, they are all over the floor and
the sink too, and everything smells mildewed. The mirror is cracked
and speckled. I look at my broken reflection, my eyes start to water
and there is something caught in my throat.  I try to cough it away,
but then a single tear slides down my cheek and then another and
another. I try to stifle myself, thinking they can probably hear me in
other room.

I have so much. I am so blessed. They have so little, they are so
broken, this family struggling to survive. I think about Mari, she is
only thirteen, but she has already become a mother to the others, her
half sisters and brothers. She has seen things and taken on
responsibilities a thirteen year old shouldn't have to think about.
Every night Isabel brings in a different boyfriend, someone else to
take away the pain, to loose herself from reality. She tells herself,
"This one will make it better. This one will change everything," but
the people who pay for her self deception are the one's she is trying
to protect. These children, who have no voice, no way out, no one else
to depend on except Mari who is just coming out of childhood herself.
My heart aches for her, for all of them- even Isabel. She doesn't know
how to get out of this trap. She doesn't know where to turn, but we
do, and that's why we're here.

We want to help her, we want to bring her out of her darkness. That is
our purpose. That she may be at one with Christ.