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  The first time I got in trouble for drinking, I was fifteen and went to party with some of my older brother’s friends and my best girlfriend at the time. My parents were out of town, and I told my grandparents I was going to a friend’s house. When I walked in, everyone stared in disbelief and delight, and they immediately started offering me drinks. Some of my brother’s friends were fighting over who could give me shots. No one could believe that I, a member of the Stanfill family, wanted to get drunk, so they watched in anticipation as I drank shot after shot. Before I knew it, I was wasted and had made out with my best girlfriend at the older boys’ urging. I don’t remember it, but a picture truly says a thousand words. By the end of the night I’d also made out with one of my older brother’s friends, even though I had a boyfriend—another picture memory—and was hanging my head over a toilet seat in the arms of a stranger. My boyfriend at the time found out and was livid. He tried to call me, but I wasn’t answering my phone. Everyone was in a panic trying to figure out whether I needed to go to the hospital or not, but I wouldn’t let them take me, because I knew I’d be in trouble. The night ended when I stumbled home and fell into bed with the stale taste of vomit on my breath.

  On Monday the whole school was talking about what an idiot I’d made of myself. I was mortified. My boyfriend broke up with me, and when my parents came home they got four phone calls from “concerned parents” letting them know what had happened. My parents confronted me, and I’ll never forget my dad asking me why I made out with my girlfriend. How could I explain to him that I would do anything for the popular kids, even if it meant making a fool of myself?

  I was grounded for three months. Much of my freshman year continued in this manner: groundings, followed by freedom, followed by drunken nights, followed by loss of trust and another period of being grounded. It was an endless cycle I couldn’t escape. My parents tried every bargaining tool in the book, but I wouldn’t give up alcohol for anything. One spring break my mom even let me get my belly button pierced because I told her I’d quit drinking if she did. I lied. I didn’t think I could be cool without alcohol, and I couldn’t survive if I wasn’t cool. My reasons for drinking were all lame, but somehow I kept convincing myself they were valid. Self-exploration was my favorite excuse, although I don’t know how much you can find out about yourself with your head hanging over the toilet.

  I’m an all-or-nothing person, which explains why I felt the need to try everything before my sixteenth birthday. I was in my best friend’s basement when I first smoked marijuana. (First moral of the story: parents, don’t get a house with a basement.) We were bored on a Friday night, and my friend had an older brother who supplied us, so we smoked and ate a whole bag of potato chips. It wasn’t very exciting. I would smoke weed on and off until I was eighteen, when I had my heart broken and found it was the only thing that would numb the pain while I was at school. Smoking was just another way that I could be who I wanted to be.

  One particularly boring Friday night, my friends and I decided to smoke weed in a closet in my parents’ garage apartment. We all giggled, passing around a bong a friend of mine had bought. We tumbled out of the closet laughing, only to find my parents coming up the stairs. We sprayed body spray until it smelled like burned hair and hoped they wouldn’t catch on. My mom walked up the stairs, and the first thing she said was, “I think something’s burning up here!” My friends almost fell out of their chairs. I quickly blamed it on a faulty heater, and they went back to the house. Once they left, we erupted in a fit of giggles. The smell never did come out of our garage apartment. Times like this make it all seem harmless, but it wasn’t. These isolated incidents seemed funny at the time, but it was never just about smoking or drinking; it was about running away from who I should be. When I was high or drunk, I hurt my family, ruined friendships, and lost people I cared about.

  Most of the four years described in this book were spent running from the responsibility of being the person I knew I was supposed to be. I knew I should be a law-abiding citizen, a good daughter, a faithful friend. However, all I cared about was me and how and whether I fit in with the popular crowd. So I ran from that straight to who it felt good to be, and then I kept running. I was always running.

  The cigarettes came along with everything else, just something to do to intensify the drinking. The first time I had one I threw up for hours. That should have been my first clue to stop, but of course I pushed through, until the nicotine was enough to calm my nerves after a long day of school. My three best friends and I all picked up smoking together until finally, when one girl’s mom was diagnosed with lung cancer for the third time, we all vowed to quit. A few years later that same friend’s mom died from the habit we so carelessly picked up.

  So these are the things that defined me—what I did and who I was with. It was all so harmless at first; I just wanted to fit in—and I did, but at what cost? What I gained was nothing compared to what I traded. I traded diamonds for dog food.

  CHAPTER 2

  GOOD-BYE, GOD

  IN MY HIGH school days, my feelings ruled me. They were tied to every decision I made. If I felt lonely, I found someone to love me for a moment. If I needed a friend, I found a drinking buddy. If my heart was broken, I found a way to numb the pain. If I was lost, I asked my friends to point me in the right direction. It all started with my need to be someone outside our family. I watched my brothers accomplish achievement after achievement, and I knew I couldn’t do it. My younger brother was following the same path as my older ones, and everyone marveled at his sweet personality and strong faith even at a young age. I didn’t have the beautiful voice or lovable personality like Kristian did. I didn’t have the gift of athleticism or the strength to stand up for my morals like Taylor did. And I wasn’t kind and giving like Brett was. From where I stood, there was nothing inside Christianity that I could do to make a name for myself.

  I believed the only thing I had was the drive to be different and, according to the world, a decent body with a workable face. I decided that if I couldn’t be just like the rest of my family, then I’d be the opposite of them and find my niche in being different. I truly believed this. Living in the shadow of three “perfect” brothers made it very difficult to feel like my own person, especially since I was right behind Taylor, the classic all-American boy. Taylor was the quarterback of the football team, homecoming king, and president of the Fellowship of Christian Athletes, and he and his girlfriend (now his wife) were voted class couple. There was no way I could be as amazing as Taylor, much less top him. So I decided to rebel, and the minute I had my first beer it gave me the difference I was craving. My brothers chose not to drink before they were twenty-one, and they stuck by their choice even though they had friends who drank. I took the other route. I embraced alcohol like I embraced most of life—full force and without fear. I lived by the saying “Often wrong but never in doubt.” Drinking gave me standing in the popular crowd, and acceptance into that club made me feel special.

  I found out quickly that rebelling was easier than I’d expected. Everyone wanted to get a Stanfill drunk, because for six years my older brothers had gone through high school and taken a stand against underage drinking. I was never accepted into the group because of who I was; I was accepted because of who I wasn’t. I wasn’t the “typical Stanfill,” so I became the black sheep. I figured if I couldn’t have the whitest coat, then I’d dye it black.

  I learned early on that high school only rewards a small number of kids, and unless you’re the best or worst at something, there isn’t a whole lot of recognition in between. You’re either the best on the team or just another guy on the team. You’re either the fastest runner or just another track member. You’re the smartest kid or just another one trying to graduate. You’re the prettiest girl or you’re trying to be her. You’re the coolest guy or you’re following him. In a group of about two thousand kids there are typically only about fifty who fit the description of “best,” and the others are left
wandering around, begging for someone to look their way.

  I wasn’t an athlete (despite being five foot ten, my height just made me awkward), and I was by no means the prettiest girl. I wasn’t the smartest kid; I could barely wake up for class. I wasn’t a leader; I was too insecure in who I was. I was an in-between, but I was determined not to be.

  ’Cause When You’re Fifteen . . .

  At fifteen, I’d never had a boyfriend, had never been kissed, and was not in the “popular” group. I had friends and a social life, and I was by no means at the bottom, but I wanted to be on the top. High school is a lonely place to be, constantly surrounded by competition and boys wanting all the wrong things. At fifteen you’re almost lucky if you make it out alive.

  I’ve never felt more lost than when I attended high school football games as a freshman. I had to be driven there by my parents, who went because my brother was the quarterback, and I’d meet my one best friend by the lollipop stand. We’d wander through the crowds looking for girls to talk to or older boys to look at. All the popular kids our age had one place they hung out, in the corner by the concession stand. Normally girls would be there with their boyfriends, sometimes older guys, and it always ended up with some couple being chanted into having their first kiss in front of everyone. They’d peck, and the tiny crowd would erupt in applause. I’d even heard of some girls going down to the practice field, behind the stadium, to make out with their boyfriends. I wasn’t in this group, but I desperately wanted to be.

  At fifteen, I started wanting to be a part of the crowd as badly as I wanted oxygen. I longed to stand among the cool kids—and not just because of who my brothers were. I wanted to have a strong upperclassman hold my hand as I walked proudly around the stadium. Instead, I was left following my much prettier best friend, hoping no one noticed how insecure I was. I was shy and awkward, partly because I was so tall. I was terrified of any and all boys and turned a dark shade of red whenever one would talk to me.

  All I was asking for at fifteen was to belong, to be loved, and to be a part of something. Deep down, I wanted to be loved, not for a night but for a lifetime. I wanted to be found beautiful because of who I was, not what I looked like. I wanted a community where I could be vulnerable, not just Friday-night friends. I wanted so much, and my Christian life seemed to provide me with so little. As a Christian I felt so out of the crowd; I felt like an outcast. All I wanted was to be a part of the group that mattered, the community marked by popular girls, hot boys, and wild parties. . . . It’s what I thought community was, and it’s what I longed for.

  It Started Off Differently, Though. . . .

  I started high school with my values intact, content to be the third in line of my four siblings and follow my older brothers’ lead as outspoken Christians. I went to the Bible studies, attended church events, and didn’t say the f-word. The problem was, that Christian life wasn’t mine. I didn’t have a faith that I really believed in, just a set of rules I had to follow. I didn’t have a relationship with the God I talked so adamantly about, just an understanding of who He was in other people’s lives. For me, God was a trend I followed until I turned fifteen, and then, like skorts, He went out of style.

  It’s easy to give something up if you never put your whole heart into it. I made the decision to leave God like you would sign up for new classes: I weighed the pros and the cons, and with what little I actually knew about a relationship with God, I chose to say good-bye. In typical me fashion, I wrote Him a good-bye letter, letting Him know I wouldn’t be needing His services anymore. I said good-bye because in the end the things that I so desperately wanted didn’t seem to come with the Christian life. I didn’t really know God, so I only cared about what He could give me. I didn’t think He could give me community, love, or a place to belong. I ended up being so wrong.

  A week after I decided to leave God, I had my first beer. People like to think the devil is idle, that we stumble into him like a person on the street, but he is waiting. First Peter 5:8 says, “Be self-controlled and alert. Your enemy the devil prowls around like a roaring lion looking for someone to devour.” He saw my turn of heart, knew the blow it could be to my life, and he pounced good. A few girls from the crowd I was desperate to be a part of invited me to have my first drink with them. I was thrilled. My mom took me over for a sleepover, met the girl’s mom, and left me. After having dinner with her family, we waited until everyone was asleep and found a beer—one of those big cans of Bud Light. I remember thinking it looked like urine and smelled like feet. I didn’t care, though. I drank it, and we all giggled, feeling like we’d just pulled off something big. The next day I felt a huge sense of accomplishment; I’d achieved the goal of being different from my family.

  The truth is, I wasn’t really looking for beer; I was looking for something to define me. If I drank beer, I was different from my brothers. If I rebelled, I became my own person instead of standing in the shadows of my well-accomplished brothers. I didn’t realize it at the time, but my attempts to be different just made me ordinary in another crowd. I wanted everything I believed a life without God would offer me—cool friends, a boyfriend, and a chance to really have fun. And I got them all. I had “cool” friends who cared more about their popularity than me, a broken heart, and so much fun that I didn’t remember most of it.

  Once You Pop You Can’t Stop

  My first beer was such an electrifying experience I started to crave it, not because of how beer made me feel but because of what drinking accomplished. I was making a name for myself, in high school standards, by becoming part of the popular crowd. For me there was nothing more refreshing than being a part of something so different from my family. I would do anything to climb the popularity ladder. I made friends, and when they weren’t useful anymore, I made new ones. I threw parties at my house so that guys would come over, and then I got grounded for a month when Mom found a giant vomit stain outside the bathroom. (I figured at least the culprits had been headed in the right direction.) I lost my parents’ trust, but it was a small price to pay for my new life. No matter what it cost me, I would make my way to the top. There was one promise I made myself when I started it all, though: I wouldn’t have sex. I knew I wanted to wait until I was married.

  When I first got caught drinking, my parents tried to jump into my life in any way they could. They did their best to have a relationship with me despite my efforts to hate them. They showed unconditional love even though my bad attitude filled our house.

  Shortly after my parents first caught me drinking, when I was fifteen, my dad decided we needed to go to father-daughter camp at JH Ranch, a Christian camp known for its appeal to teens. He thought a little church camp might cure my rebellion. I was livid. I didn’t want to go to church camp even though it was in California and my dad promised we’d have a good time. So I cried. I was so tired of my parents telling me I needed to change; couldn’t they see how happy I was? Apparently not. We went anyway.

  At the camp they made us have “the talk” about sex. I was mortified. My dad, being the communicator he is, took it in stride and revealed to me something I never expected.

  It was one of those moments when you realize your parents are mortal, when you see that they’ve made the same mistakes other people have made and they’re just as much a part of this world as everyone else. It’s a shattering moment in childhood, and it’s also part of growing up, part of shifting focus away from your earthly parents and focusing on your eternal One. As a child, no matter how much I loved God, no matter how many times I sang “Jesus Loves Me,” He didn’t measure up to Mom and Dad. In a sense, I believed God must have learned to be good from my parents. I remember thinking that there could be no better father than my earthly father, so why look?

  I can still see the path we were walking down, the trees towering above us to form a canopy. It was cool outside, and we were deep in conversation. I was telling my dad about my grand plans and my need for freedom. I told him I didn’t fit into our f
amily, that everyone was far too perfect. He laughed. “Perfect?” he said. “That’s what you think? Tindell, let me tell you how our family started.”

  Then he told me the story that kicked him right off my pedestal.

  My parents met the summer before their senior year in college; my mom watched my dad break up with his longtime girlfriend and went in for the kill (at least that’s how my dad tells it). She said she was instantly drawn to him. He was tall and handsome and played football for Georgia Tech. She knew he loved the Lord and was known among his friends for his ability to have fun without alcohol. My dad says he wasn’t interested in her; they were at a pool party, and my mom had mascara dripping down her face. His ears only perked up when he heard her say she had to get home so she could go to church in the morning. They began talking about Bible studies, and my mom invited him to the one she attended. He accepted. My dad walked away excited that he had found a Bible study, and my mom walked away excited she’d found her next boyfriend.

  The way my dad tells it, he went to pick her up and hadn’t thought twice about his outfit or combed his hair. He was going to Bible study. My mom, however, was going on a date. She’d changed a hundred times (I only imagine this because she does that now) and done her hair to perfection. When she answered the door, my dad was suddenly aware of his appearance; he smoothed his hair and went to tuck in his shirt. My mom is the definition of captivating, and I can picture my dad’s face based on how he still looks at her today: jaw open, eyes wide, mesmerized by her beauty.