Faded Denim: Color Me Trapped Read Free

Really, really angry. I’m not sure whether I’m angry at Leah for being so skinny and gorgeous and having a prom date with Brett, or just angry at myself for not. Or maybe I’m angry at God for making me like this in the first place. But as I stomp up the stairs to my room I seriously feel like breaking something!



two
     
     
    I ’ VE BEEN SAVED FOR ABOUT FIVE YEARS NOW, LONG ENOUGH TO HAVE LEARNED a thing or two about being a Christian. For instance, I know that God cares more about the condition of my heart than the way I look on the outside. But I also know that I am
not
God. And I find it impossible to pretend that I don’t care about, or that I’m even okay with, my physical appearance. More than ever, I totally hate how I look.
    “Focus on your strengths,” I just read in one of my mom’s oldlady magazines, “whether it’s your hair or legs or eye color or even your toenails. Discover where your beauty strengths lie and start there.” Yeah, right. The title of this ridiculous article was “Feeling Pretty Begins Inside,” and I couldn’t even force myself to read more than a couple paragraphs. After that, I stood in front of my bedroom mirror and started to take a serious inventory of my appearance. After standing there about an hour, I honestly could not find one single “beauty strength” to focus on. It’s like I rate a big fat zero.
    But it gets worse. I think all this focus on looks is making me eat more than ever. It’s like food has suddenly become some kind of escape route for me. Comfort eating, I think they call it. And let me tell you, this porking out to feel better is getting pretty scary. Last night I consumed a whole bag of Doritos, about thirty-two ounces of Pepsi, and a half carton of Goo Goo Cluster ice cream—and that’sjust the food I actually remember shoving into my mouth. Who knows what might’ve slipped in unnoticed? But the truly frightening part is that I already weigh more than I’ve ever weighed in my entire life, and at this rate I’ll be bigger than a whale by summer vacation.
    To top it off, I just remembered that Leah and I signed up to work as camp counselors at our church’s middle-school camp for two weeks in June, and we’ve been warned about how girls this age can be extremely brutal—on everyone. Now I’m imagining all those wicked preadolescent girls picking on me and making fun of me and totally humiliating me. Meanwhile, beautiful Leah will be considered the “cool” counselor, not to mention the one who all the other counselor guys will be flirting with, which was one of our original reasons for volunteering (to meet cool Christian guys). Why is life so unfair?
    “What are you so glum about?” my mom asks me on Saturday morning as I sit glued to the boob tube, spacing out in front of
SpongeBob SquarePants
as I put away my second bowl of Froot Loops. It’s my little brother, Matt’s, favorite cereal, so he’ll probably be really mad when he discovers there are only a couple of spoonfuls left. But he’s at baseball practice right now so I won’t think about that.
    Mom stands beside me now and actually places her hand on my forehead the way she used to when I was little. “Really, Emily, are you feeling okay? You don’t seem like yourself this morning.”
    I look up at her and am about to complain about how fat I am when I realize that her weight problem is even worse than mine. Of course, she simply laughs about her bulging waistline. She says it’s “just middle-age spread,” which if you ask me sounds totally gross, but she seems to feel that being “pleasantly plump,” as my dad sometimes calls it, is no big deal. However, Dad doesn’t treat my weight gain quite so casually. “Putting on some weight, Emily?” he says tome at least once a week. Or in a forced cheerful tone he’ll say, “Hey, Em, want to take a walk with me? We should get some exercise.” Yeah, right. Or my personal favorite, “You sure you really want to