Put Me in a Mixer and Watch Me Spin

When I was a child, I knew for certain I was going to be a veterinarian and live on a farm.

When I was an adolescent, I thoroughly intended on being the first female president of the United States (or when feeling less grandiose, a social worker).

When I was a teenager, I had no aspirations to be much of anything for longer than 10 minutes. The way I saw it, I was lucky to still be alive.

In retrospect, I often think that I was too afraid of failure to really carve out what I was going to “BE” and where I was going to “GO” and who was going to go “WITH ME”. If I threw something out there, and I didn’t attain the goal, I had failed again. They were adding up, and I just felt like a total and complete failure.

In my young mind, I had attained more failures in my life before the age of 20, than anyone else possibly could have.

I barely made it through the first round of the town-wide spelling bee in 4^th grade. I was always in second place to the same girl in competitive swimming. When given the choice to start over a senior on the Varsity Soccer team, I chose to fail and play as her backup for Varsity games instead of sticking up for myself (that would’ve required being able to handle the backlash). My high school soccer coach called me a “chicken head”, and the truth was I was totally and completely prude at the time. I was always just the friend, not the girlfriend. I never quite cut it when I skipped a couple grades in math, not like my brother did anyway. I didn’t have style, not like all the other girls. I couldn’t do hair like they could. I had no idea how to wear makeup like they did. I failed, overall, at being a girl basically.

I was always awkward, socially AND generally.

I could never make up my mind. I was constantly morphing into something different, eventually the outcome was just an individual who didn’t know what they wanted, who they were, why they were the way they were, and put up the highest walls to pretend that I was tough – that’s why I wasn’t so personable. I pretended to not care about rules, or hurting other people. I placed all my stock in my immediate circle and protected them to the best of my abilities. I was always willing to “take one for the team” and take the most dangerous risks. I pretended like I was “YOLO-ING” but I was just really mixed up.

Was it purpose I wanted? Was it attention? Jumping out of a moving vehicle just to see what happens doesn’t really scream PURPOSE – but it might scream ATTENTION. As a 16 year old girl, that sounds about right.

The clothing I chose, either completely provocative or entirely grunge, also made a statement. One seemed to be “come get me” and the other was like I was John Cena waving his hand in front of his face,

“You can’t seeeeeeee me.”

I went through some very strange phases ..

.. punk rock, which included the black studded belt, a french manicure with hot pink and black tips, black hair, and Avril Lavigne-ish tanktops ..

.. there was the hippie phase, which included Birks with socks (sandals or clogs), baggy jeans or bell bottoms, hair braided with hemp and beads, too many hemp necklaces, all with the cherry on top – stoned by 7:30 AM ..

.. even a ghetto phase – big silver hoops, an EckoRed zip up hoodie, and the attitude that came with it.

But as a teenager, I think what my friends remember most – is the RBF that I held before RBF was even a thing, and the little backpack I carried around school and to parties that had nothing but drug and alcohol related contraband in it. As a second common memory, it would be my ability to sleep little or on the flip-side ... stay in bed or on the couch all day and not pick up my phone.

And I never got caught. The impact? The lesson I learned was one I hope my own children never come to learn, particularly because it’s a farse –

I was completely invincible.

Truth be told, I think I used to hope I got caught. Deep down, I truly think I just wanted someone to save me from myself. I wanted to escape me, my feelings when I wasn’t fucked up, and my ability to manipulate and rationalize any sort of behavior to make an excuse for how I was the way I was. I felt so disorganized mentally, made decisions on impulse nearly always, and rode my rollercoaster of highs and lows, showing early signs of depression, mania, and isolation patterns.