The Problem Child
Growing up, I considered the 'problem child' as the high school student who would cut class, smoke cigarettes in the school bathroom, and sneak out of the house. While I got most of these references from Lifetime movies and Dr. Phil, it was a good indicator of what not to do if you wanted to be considered a 'good kid'. I, for one, did not fit the stereotypical mold. In reality, I was actually nervous when I did something bad and grew up pretty sheltered, making it almost impossible to get into too much trouble, even if I wanted to. However, to maintain my transparency streak, I was always in detention because I was consistently late to school. In my senior year, my parents received a letter from the dean stating that I was tardy over 100 times and on the verge of suspension. I attended an all-girls Catholic school, so a suspension would have looked bad on them. They just wanted to push some of that old Catholic guilt on me, which obviously didn’t work because I continued to be late throughout the rest of my high school career and never got suspended. Jokes on you, Sister Joan.
Looking back, it really wasn’t that big of a deal. Yes, it was a little punkish and clearly showed a general lack of respect for authority, but I maintained good grades and kept my nose clean…most of the time.
I was very outspoken as a child and had a lot of feelings about things that I felt the need to share. I constantly got in trouble for talking back and was branded a trouble-maker early on in my adolescence. Whenever I thought something was unfair or someone did something that I didn’t agree with, I almost always spoke out about it. In my defense, I didn’t have the tools to communicate my feelings 'correctly', and, adding in the fact that I had a stutter, a lot of times my thoughts got lost in translation, especially when speaking to adults. While I’m sure I was difficult to deal with at times, as all kids are, I was a child doing the best I could with what I had and what I thought was right at the time.
My senior year of high school is one that I don’t look back on with the fondest of memories. I found out through the grapevine that my friend’s mom called me ‘troubled’ to another friend’s mom in response to a teenage argument that we had…emphasis on the word ‘teenage’.
While I did indulge in underage drinking (at times in excess), along with my other friends, I was also grappling with a lot in terms of my mental health and experiencing turbulence in my personal life. In hindsight, I realize that I was not, and am not, 'troubled' and was behaving very similarly to my peers. I believe I was an easy target due to being one of the few friends with divorced parents and lacking a traditional home-life. However, in my developing and impressionable seventeen-year-old mind, I assumed that if adults were saying it, it must be true. Just a friendly word to any parents (or adults in general): speaking negatively about children who are not your own is inappropriate and, frankly, a little creepy. Find something fulfilling and consider talking to a therapist if you need to unload.
Next came college. I've discussed this quite a bit, but I've always been insecure about friendships. I fear being alone and have a strong desire for acceptance. While I believe this is a universal experience, I went about securing these connections in the wrong way. In the first month of college, I formed a fairly large group of friends. I really put myself out there and tried to engage with as many people as I could. However, my tendency to black out from drinking quickly made me a liability, leading some of my new friends to understandably exclude me from parties. I'm sure they didn't want the responsibility of taking care of me or dealing with the embarrassment of my unpredictable behavior, but it truly hurt my feelings. Although I now understand that I have an allergy and physically can't tolerate alcohol like 'normal' drinkers, at the time, I believed I deserved to be alone because of the way I would ruin nights and leave a trail of chaos behind. From an external perspective, I may have seemed like I didn’t care, but internally, my mind validated every negative thought I had about myself.
For some, these experiences may not seem to be that life-altering. Many people experience far worse and seemingly get over their trauma without it impacting their everyday life. Little did I know, these foundational experiences created a deep-rooted belief system of doubt in me that has been festering like a slow-growing tumor.
However, branding myself as the "bad seed" swung the pendulum in the opposite direction, straight into seeking validation from others. There’s still a huge part of me that strives for approval and loves receiving positive feedback, whether it’s people expressing pride in me or acknowledging a job well done. Truly, nothing puts a bigger smile on my face. Besides my cat and Taylor Swift, obviously.
Before seeking therapy in 2015, I used to completely abandon my own feelings and do everything in my power to make sure everyone else was content. Almost nine years later, I am improving in prioritizing my own well-being by establishing boundaries and expressing myself in a more level-headed manner.
The aspect that remains a constant work-in-progress is my response to criticism from others. Even if the person means well, I tend to take it very personally and often ruminate on it for days. While some might perceive this as a lack of accountability or stubbornness, I've come to realize it's quite the opposite. In my mind, I immediately jump to the conclusion that I'm not doing enough, I'm doing it wrong, or I'm not doing it well enough.
It wasn't until I experienced a prolonged period of clarity that I recognized how much I rely on others to feel good or make decisions. With every major decision in my life, I sought advice from others, questioning whether it's a good idea or if they think it will work. I never fully trusted my own convictions, nor did I genuinely trust my gut. Hence, the reason I started this freaking blog in the first place. I had, indeed, lost the plot.
I feel like the real me got buried deep down from judgment, other people’s perceptions, and the limits I put on myself. I have spent the last couple of months peeling back the layers of my past, unlearning negative thought patterns, and slowly toughening my skin.
The biggest lesson I have taken from this, and it’s something I need to remind myself of every hour of every godforsaken day, is that it truly doesn’t matter what anyone thinks of you. Whether it’s your friends, family, coworkers, or a stranger on the street. As long as you know your heart and try to do the next right thing, all the other noise is just that—freaking noise. Trust me, I would know. I have definitely done my fair share of judging, and those people are living their lives the way they want, regardless of my unqualified opinion. One last thought to leave you with: your past does not define you, nor does the opinion of your friend’s mom with a lot of free time on her hands.
