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.
