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My cheek pressed hard against the toilet seat, and I clung to the bowl desperately with both arms. I couldn't let myself pass out. I had to keep throwing up or I wasn't going to walk out of there.

My legs were stretched out behind me, too numb to support my body. Everything was going numb. I was terrified, but I kept silent. Calling for help would be too dangerous for a drunk girl in a dark New York City bathroom.

The pounding beat of techno music echoed from inside the club. It would be five more hours until the club closed—five more hours before my friends would search for me. Tears slipped down my cheeks as I imagined how someone would find me: lifeless, hair matted and sticky, my lavender dress soaked in orange vomit. And how my parents would sob, thinking how their little girl was eternally lost.

I closed my eyes. The noises around me faded, and through the darkness, I thought I heard a soft voice:

"How have you represented me?"

"Lord," I began weakly, "I … I tried … "

But that wasn't true. For the past four years of college, I'd partied and drank myself stupid almost every weekend, all the while telling everyone I was a Christian.

"Badly, Lord."

Events from my life zoomed through my mind. By junior high, I thought my spiritual roots were deep: I went to five church services a week. I had pictured myself as a Super Christian, able to leap over any sinful situation with a single bound. And I could do it all with my own strength.

As a Super Christian, my special powers and talents made me the best praiser and worshiper ever. I had a slew of awards from church district talent shows to prove it.

My memories turned to a talent show with one odd performance: A guy got up and sang, twangy and off-key, a song almost entirely made up of five words: "He's still workin' on me. He's still workin' on me …."

Every other note was flat. The notes in between those were sharp. I scowled at him. If he wasn't going to worship perfectly, why even try?

Some of the other performers began to snicker. I joined in. The boy heard us, but kept singing, his eyes focused heavenward, carefully articulating each word: "He's … still … workin' … on … me. … "

When awards were handed out, I proudly accepted yet another purple "Superior" ribbon, the highest honor. All in a day's work for a Super Christian. I tossed it in my purse. The guy who "needed some work" humbly held out his hands for the green "Good" ribbon. He pinned it to his shirt. My jaw dropped. Why would anyone want to show off a "Good" ribbon?

A light tap on the stall door snapped me back to reality. "Ah yoo oh-kay?" a female voice inquired in a nasally New York accent. Two feet in strappy magenta-colored platforms now occupied the space just outside the door.

"Yeah, I'm OK," I managed to weakly reply. I was too ashamed to admit the truth. I was in trouble. There was still too much alcohol in my system, and I couldn't force myself to throw up anymore.

"Drink this." I saw her hands and knees as she stooped to push a cup under the stall door. Letting go of the toilet with one arm, I grabbed it. It was water! She told me she would be back soon with more. The click of her heels faded, then disappeared. I sipped the water, careful not to let one precious drop spill. Who knew if she'd really come back? Almost immediately, I started vomiting again.

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