1. Reputation

I've always been a little extra.

*This post is the first in a series that will be numbered as chapters. My suggestion is to read them in order.

Reputations are funny things, they are involuntary and have nothing to do with the individuals who carry them, a projection of others’ perceived identity of you.

Taylor Swift wrote an entire album clapping back at her reputation in the public eye and intentionally hasn't changed her outfit for that section of her current tour, Eras, while rotating every other album’s look. I think it's also no coincidence that each one of her albums is themed with a different color palette. Reputation is the only one void of color. Every other album's aesthetic is subtle but recognizable. Reputation blasts us with bold black-and-white lettering and images on all of the artwork, but the title is lowercase. All of her other albums get a capital letter. The album is also a shift from anything else she's ever created. It stands on its own, almost as a big fuck you to all those who have tried to push her down. The songs are bops, but they have an undertone of anger. Her lyrics are focused and we know exactly who she's talking about whereas her other albums feel like poetry and sometimes take an army of Swifties to uncover the meaning of each song. It's funny, heartbreaking, and powerful all at once. It was one of her most polarizing albums, dividing even her most devoted Swifties, but it's one of my favorites. I think her more recent albums are complete masterpieces and by far her best work, but I can't help but think that those who've written it off are very wrong.

When her catchy pop album came out I remember counting the days, weeks, and months prior to its release. The hype was real. Taylor deleted everything on social media and then began posting photos of snakes, giving us clues as to what this album would be like. Then she released her first single, "Look What You Made Me Do", and I was caught off guard. It was synthy and dark and repetitive. The beat was jarring, but more so when she started talking during the bridge saying, "The old Taylor can't come to the phone right now...Why?...Because she's dead." Dead was emphasized, but casually spoken almost like when Cher, from Clueless, says, "As if." I didn't know what to think. It kind of reminded me of when Britney sang her "Oops!... I did it again." I trusted Taylor, I knew she knew what she was doing and I kept listening. Then she released "...Ready for It?" and I was not ready. These were bold choices to release as singles, I'd not heard anything like it from her. Mirroring when she wiped her social media and then gave us breadcrumbs as to what was to come, I was hanging on every note craving the next one and then the next one. My favorite song is, "Don't Blame Me." It was never a single played on the radio, but it mesmerized me with its gospel sound and raging tone.

I think reputation changed everything. Taylor sent a message. Reputations follow us. And they don’t just disappear. Rather than fighting it, she laughs in the face (literally in one of the songs) of those perpetuating their narrative of her, ultimately taking away their power.

A person’s past behavior typically shapes their reputation. Usually, it's behavior that is deemed unacceptable. They serve as a time capsule, imprisoning the person held to it. Lacking very little basis in reality, they also function as a superficial way for others to judge. No amount of proof is going to convince anyone who is set on simplifying a person to the sum of their observed behavior. We aren't a collective of our past discretions or maybe we were never that person all along.

My reputation started young. Towering over everyone my age in combination with my mature-looking face and a mind that was self-aware, I became a target for judgment because I could never live up to the unrealistic expectations others had for me that I should be acting my age. Often lacking background, my presence was confusing for both adults and my peers.

When I was little, my sister and I would attend an acting camp as one of our summer activities when we were on break from school. I was unaware of a strange encounter my mom had with the parents of my fellow campers one summer until she recapped it to me years later.

We were performing a play we’d rehearsed as the final project of the two-week intensive camp. I played a medium role along with the other kids in my age group. My mom watched me take the stage and shine brightly, but couldn't help but notice the frustration of the other parents in the audience. They complained that an older kid was taking the spotlight and attention from their children even though we all were equal in our roles. They deemed it unfair I was allowed to participate. Maybe if I was right-sized I wouldn't have caused so much trouble, maybe not, but they were confused. She recalled them judging me for acting immature, maybe they let me perform with the younger kids because I had mental deficiencies. She had to explain that, even though I looked years older than the others on stage, I was in fact the same age. I wasn't acting in an unusual way, in fact, there was probably nothing particularly special about my performance, but my physical appearance, nonetheless was jarring for those who didn't know me. I can’t image the discomfort she may have experienced defending me from such a devastating assumption. Despite our differences, my mom loves me fiercely and has always intervened and advocated for me when it mattered most.

This was not an isolated incident, throughout my primary years, my teachers and other strangers would go on to place me in groups with other children who were in need of more help or labeled a problem. I was too disruptive or chatty, or I pushed the limit maybe a little too much, but I was also in elementary school. Maybe if I had looked the part or just kept to myself I might not have failed to meet their harmful standardized benchmarks.

I remember watching as the “gifted” kids were called out of class to participate in privileged activities that included art and other special projects. This was in the era of separating excellence by some arbitrary standard. The kids with perceived potential were rewarded with merit and those deemed subpar were left to wonder what was wrong with them. A line was drawn, and it must have been marked in our permanent records because I would never be chosen for any of those groups, no matter how much I excelled.

In addition to the creative subjects, I remember there also being a math group. I loved art as a child and took art lessons with my sister. We both were talented at drawing, but I also loved math and oddly enough, was good at it. Despite my brain being drawn toward creativity, I loved the challenge of figuring out a really hard math problem. It excited me. It felt creative because it often required investigative skills, which I naturally had because of my curious mind that wouldn't shut off. I remember on several occasions understanding so clearly how to solve a problem and having to watch as my classmates scratched their heads. Every year when they would call out the names of the new group of kids to be taken to another special room while the rest of us worked on boring stuff, I would eagerly wait, knowing this time I would get chosen. How could I not? Yet I watched year after year as the other kids’ names were called, always the same ones, and mine was not.

Now I didn’t always excel in school, in fact, it was quite the opposite. Not for lack of intellect or understanding, but because I was consumed by fear and I let it get the best of me. I’ve been a perpetual procrastinator for as long as I can remember, and coupled with pride getting in the way of me asking for help, I would wait to do my assignments until it was too late, and then if there was any clarification needed, I would have missed my window. I brushed it off as if it didn’t matter to me, but it did, and yet I consistently produced mediocre work proving their classification of me was correct.

Any person watching me in class would see a girl who couldn’t stop fidgeting or talking with her neighbors. I was punished for speaking and for being disruptive and was often moved to a different seat. But having a conversation with me or listening to the questions I asked, anyone would see immediately I was no dummy. I understood exactly what was going on. Just because I wasn’t always paying attention, didn’t mean I didn’t understand. ADHD is a tricky thing, the mind stays busy and the outsides look like chaos, but the download of information is overwhelming. I always thought it was a superpower that I could pay attention to multiple things happening at once.

People think ADHD is about distraction, but for me, it's always been hyperfocus, which at times causes distraction. My brain can't always differentiate what is important and what isn't, so I observe everything and filter out what's necessary and what's not. I can pick up on everything that is happening around me without missing a thing. It looks like I’m not paying attention, but I can actually overhear a group of classmates' conversation about me while having my own, and working on a task assigned. The upside is I'm always in the know, I remember the stupidest details about almost anything, and when focused I'm a producing machine. If I sit down to write and my focus is there, I will type, without stopping for hours because I need to empty my brain on the paper. This goes on until I'm too tired or my back hurts so I stop and go to bed. And the work isn't bullshit. I'm really proud of what I've created. The downside of navigating so much information all at once is that it can be distracting because I get buried in the details and miss the substance. The most glaring examples happen in social settings. I'll run into a bunch of people I know at a party and instead of catching up with one person, I chat quickly with them while acknowledging another, giving a hug to a different person, and then walking away with no goodbye to start the process over again. It's exhausting and overstimulating and I'm left feeling guilty that I looked like a flake. But in the moment I feel guilty for seeing all these people I know and love therefore pressuring myself to make sure each one gets my attention at some point.

I had good teachers, but more often than not I was just another number to them to be shuffled through. If I’d been given the resources and time to go at my own pace or had been exposed to a structure of learning that utilized my skills, I would have excelled, but my time management skills got the best of me, and so did the one-size-fits-all education system. I think that’s why I was so successful in college. I knew the importance of routine, but the nontraditional structure of learning worked in my favor. I was allowed to speak my mind and create masterful work. I loved class discussions, and to my surprise, writing research papers. My curiosity was celebrated rather than squashed.

When I finally went to treatment for my drug and alcohol problem, I remember the counselors telling me I was never going to be successful. That treatment wouldn’t work for me and I would end up as another statistic of a failed system. They knew the odds were stacked against us and never hesitated to tell me I was surely going to be one of the statistics you didn’t want to be. I was never chosen as a weekly peer, chapel leader, or the buddy who was assigned to a new patient to show them around. It brought me back to my primary days, and I was, yet again categorized as a problem because I didn't always follow their rules. I think the statement, "The rules don't apply to me/you" is used as an attack on those who often just want to know why it's necessary to do something without question. But we are trained from an early age to comply and if we deviate, because we use reason to push back, then we become a problem. I wasn't allowed to bring cough drops to school when I had a sore throat and was sent to the principal's office without explanation; in treatment, we weren't allowed to have sugar or coffee so we'd sneak it in and hide it in our closets; or like the time when I was silenced by the school counselor, in front of my peers, because apparently we aren't supposed to ask questions- these rules are not clear and their explanation for enforcement seem made up so it ends up feeling like a gaslighting tactic used to make a person feel like they are doing something wrong without established cause. Rules are in place for a reason, I get it, but I think there is flexibility in most cases, but this is also why I'm a problem.

I think I stayed sober for my first year out of spite for them. I would show them just how wrong they were. I would break the cycle. And I did. My time in treatment was forgotten by those in charge, but I am here to report that I’m the sole person who stayed sober successfully out of any one of my peers. Some I knew sobered up later, but no one that I know of has stayed and found the freedom from addiction as I have.

Being socially awkward growing up also didn’t do me any favors. I remember being at a birthday party with a bunch of my friends and sitting up front in the car we all crammed into to drive to a nearby hot springs for the day. It was one of my favorite places to go when I was a kid. I have many memories of speeding down the giant water slide, sometimes afraid for my life as I was swept up the sides of the many loops from the force of the current, only to be shot out into the deep pool, pulled underwater, and unavoidably getting a painful amount of water up my nose. My sister and I would immediately get back out of the water and run back up the cold, soaked, carpeted stairs to the top and do it over and over again. We would then recover with the Little Debbie Star Crunches my grandma always made sure to bring.

My middle school friends and I were wild, we were always getting into trouble and were a force to be reckoned with. This trip was no different. We made a splash, literally and figuratively flirting with the boys in the pool and fantasizing about indulging in behavior that would most definitely get us in trouble.

On the ride back, as I sat in the front seat listening to the god-awful Josie and the Pussycats soundtrack, I chatted with my friend’s mom. I don’t remember the specifics of the conversation, but I remember using the word "frankly" in conversation causing my friends to erupt in laughter and tease me about it for the next several miles. The short, insignificant moment stuck with me because, it too, was a common occurrence I experienced growing up. Saying the wrong thing, talking too adult-like in front of my peers, or asking logical questions in a conversation that were deemed no-nos by my fellow tweens. I was at a different birthday party around that same time in my life and I remember my friend, who we were celebrating, was opening presents. She unwrapped this fancy full-sized Bath & Body Works lotion. That was a big deal. They were so expensive, that no one our age had the full sizes. We would spend the same amount of money on all the minis because then we could try more of the flavors. It seemed like the better deal. It wasn't. Sitting right next to her, I saw that the scent was called “Warmed Vanilla Sugar”. They were always naming their products such stupid names. Even my favorite was something called “Sun-Ripened Raspberry." I made a joke asking if it was still warm if she put it in the freezer. No one laughed. It’s a logical question. I get browned butter, or the scent from a campfire, these are heated items that most definitely have a smell, but warmed sugar? Even a mega company like Bath & Body Works couldn’t be that dumb to suggest an adjective like that in the name of one of their core scents and not have anyone object. But just like Abercrombie, these were different times and frankly, I would have probably purchased it anyway.

I’ve written about my childhood and growing up predominately around adults because I spent so much time at my dad’s coffee shop. From the ripe old age of eight, I was slinging espresso drinks behind the counter and engaging in conversations with the regulars. These people helped shape who I’ve become. I could remember anyone’s coffee order, even if it was an hour prior, so when they’d come back to order another drink during their study session or meeting, I’d catch them by surprise when I remembered the details so specifically. I often remembered people who returned weeks later for the same beverage. One of two things would happen, they would either be impressed I remembered them and their very particular coffee order, or be weirded out and think I was some sort of psycho.

I’ve always paid attention to details, absorbing everything as a sponge. Growing up, my mom contributed to this. She is an intellectual and well-educated and treated my sister and me as valuable participants in conversation. Both my sister and I have a knack for bypassing superficial bullshit and naturally exploring the deeper meaning of life through our ability to see the big picture. This skill also means the three of us have the tendency to overthink things. Our inability to differentiate the simplicity of ordering something off the menu versus dissecting our feelings about a complex situation often results in us going around in circles and beating a dead horse.

I’ve resented them at times when we have a conflict within our dynamic. My mom and sister tend to lean towards the same perspective that needs more resolution and I want to drop it because I think we've already found it. This creates a dilemma that usually results in several conversations where we say the same things and accomplish very little in proving any of our points. When we engage in thoughtful conversation on a car ride about curiosity and why people behave the way they do, or my sister and I talk on the phone for hours dissecting what tectonic plates actually are and how volcanoes are created, the conversation is stimulating and oftentimes hilarious. But when we disagree on how an exchange played out at a family dinner because I was late or I asked for more food to take to go, the way we all think and process information becomes a crutch that makes even the most basic scenarios month-long conflicts.

My reputation for destruction and disruption has plagued me in my family and at times felt very personal when I was just trying to downplay what they deemed unacceptable behavior. Their conventional lifestyles often clash with mine so when I throw the rules out the window and choose the more individualistic path, it’s triggering and they feel the need to voice their opinion.

Sometimes they are right. My bigness comes out as pushy and demanding, but the familiar dynamics we’ve established over our lifetimes don’t always warrant the trained response. I tend to be the catalyst for discomfort in my family and my recent choices to physically move out of the city I grew up in and carve my own path have been the most disruptive of all.

Both my sister and my mom worry about me. I know it comes from a place of love, but their methods have pushed me away. My actions, especially the decisions to get divorced, move to Missoula, and ultimately live in my camper full-time on the road, were made from a place of inner knowing. Logic isn't always the answer. I know it's easier for them to reason their way toward a conclusion, but when I don't and they disagree, my distance serves as a way of self-preservation. My decision-making has ultimately paid off because my mental health is more stable than it’s ever been, but it’s also shifted our family dynamics for good.

Change is always hard. In my recovery program our literature talks at length about the shift in roles a sober person naturally creates. Marriages that withstood the test of devastating addiction sometimes fall apart when a person starts to put their life back together; or parents, siblings, and friends scramble to find solid ground with the newly recovered person who no longer acts like the person they knew so well. We see this play out time and time again as the roles shift and the non-alcoholics become the ones who desperately need help.

There are specific programs dedicated entirely to this phenomenon. Alcoholism and addiction are family diseases, but unless a conscious change is made by the whole group, the recovering alcoholic will often feel alienated and confused and have choices to make for their own serenity. I’ve seen dynamics shift from relief that their loved one is now safe and sober, to that of resentment and jealousy that this new person has chosen a group of strangers over their own family. But what’s beautiful is that the two can coexist without all the trouble, but it takes work by everyone.

My family was torn apart by my drinking, I caused a lot of destruction that took many years to make amends for. However, my family rallied behind me when I went to treatment and made every effort to support my recovery once I was released. At first, they were mindful of drinking around me, which I appreciated, then, as I started to form solid ground, my foundation allowed me to go anywhere and do anything and gave them the space to breathe a little and not tiptoe around my once fragile shell.

My family supported me so much that they would often attend my birthday meetings, what we call the meetings where the milestone of another year sober is celebrated. For years my sister would send me a card and sometimes give me a small gift to show how proud of me she was. It meant the world to me. I still have the necklace she gave me when I got my one-year chip. I loved the image of the girl framed in a tiny box on the beaded string that read, “Journey to her wings.”

I was 20 when I sobered up. I drank and used drugs harder in my teens than some do over their 20+ drinking years. I’d had enough just five days before I turned 21. Most people don’t get sober that early, most people endure decades of suffering before they finally recover. It’s not uncommon for those to sober up young, but we are definitely in the minority.

Getting sober young has its own challenges. Most of us didn’t destroy marriages, have health issues, or serve prison time as so many others have, but we face the unique task of growing up and putting our lives back together simultaneously. There is a huge respect in the recovery community for those who get and stay sober so young, but just as I still see my other sober peers as the same people with the same amount of time as they had when I started, many still see me as that wild and crazy, not to be fully taken seriously, girl. I felt time-capsuled and held to where I was at during my first few years which were crazy and not taken seriously.

I’ll give them credit, they watched with skepticism in my first years as I arrived at meetings late, made friends with all the boys, engaged in questionable behavior, and blew up my life over and over again. I would eventually come to my senses after talking with my sponsor, or finally be in enough pain to do the work to get me out of it. It was excruciating, and my family and fellow alcoholics had a front-row seat to the chaos.

This happens a lot. It doesn’t matter what age you get sober, it takes a while to develop a solid enough spiritual foundation to stop behaving badly in sobriety. Taking away alcohol doesn’t fix the problem, it removes the buffer leaving a person to face the discomfort they drank away for so many years.

Not everyone has to endure the amount of self-inflicted pain I did in recovery. Many do and don’t stay sober, some, like me, do and make it through, and others are able to get it right away and start the road to recovery without creating more chaos immediately. It doesn’t matter how far down the bottom is when a person gets sober, over my 15 years clean, I’ve seen every type of alcoholic experience some variation of this in sobriety.

However, when the spiritual awakening begins to happen, no matter how long it takes, because that’s basically our only hope of truly staying sober, it oftentimes has a far more disruptive impact than being a mess in early sobriety. The chaos not yet tamed, despite removing alcohol isn’t always a qualifier for family dynamics to be disrupted for the worst. More often than not, as the sober person recovers and develops a way of life that is substantially more rewarding than their previous one, it unravels the dysfunction of others and they desperately try to hold on to the old ways or create new chaos with the hopes of bringing it back. We all have our roles in our families. Long-standing identities are hard to break.

Having a psychic change is required for a person if they are afflicted with the disease if they want to live a life without filling it with substances and not be miserable. But non-alcoholics don’t have their life on the line. Our recovery is vital to our existence. The shift in the rest of the family is optional. Even so, cleaning up the wreckage should be a team effort. There’s no question the addict is the biggest problem and has a lot of work to do, but every family member is a cog in the wheel so when a rock is thrown in and stops the motion, it’s vital that everyone adjusts.

It’s not my job to make anyone change for me, but old habits die hard, and it’s nearly impossible for me to find a place back in my old life without some external alterations being made. As the years go by and I settle into my recovery, the ease and familiarity of it become second nature. But like I said, it’s not life or death, or even mandatory for everyone else to adjust, just to make space for me. But when it doesn’t happen, the pain can be worse than when I was drinking, for everyone involved. It's not the same kind of pain, it's different, but nonetheless agonizing.

This is what happened with my family.

*Come back for part two in the series.