Wreck My Life Page 3

  So I set my mind to working hard to please my earthly father. Cracks crept into my foundational understanding of what love really was. My interpretation of love became a balancing act and my interpretation of God’s love followed suit.

  The Pursuit of Perfection

  With each passing year, the strangleholds of my dad’s struggles seemed to grip tighter at his peace. They seemed to slowly rob him of that infectious ease that once strung through his soft Southern drawl. He became more irritable. And quick-tempered. The list of things that would set him off grew. A house that used to echo with the pitter-patter of love-drunk feet felt more like a house made of glass.

  In my preteen years, I often felt like I was walking on eggshells around the dad I desired so desperately to please. When things were good, they were wonderful. Our family made memories filled with laughter.

  But when things were off, they were increasingly hard to read.

  My dominant personality didn’t help the situation. If I was bullheaded as a child I was brazen as a young teen. My patience-testing and boundary-pushing and norm-challenging ways took a toll on parents who I’m sure would have loved a little rest. But at the core of my heart, I was still their baby girl—who ached with every ounce of myself to make them proud.

  What became challenging was that the stern stare and tightened jaw I would receive from my dad when I’d done something wrong evolved into daylong silent treatments. And the list of “wrongs” seemed to constantly grow and become even more subjective to the mood he was in. Academically, perfection was expected. It was guaranteed that if we brought home a B there would be a scolding. Athletically, the standard was no different. The sport I loved at times flirted with becoming the sport I played just to make my father happy.

  There were too many soccer games to count where I would make a poor play or allow a soft goal and tremble as I peeked over at the sidelines. If his arms were crossed and his legs were spread, I knew the car ride home would be silent. On the flip side, when I excelled I was suddenly back in the passenger seat as “daddy’s best girl.” When we won big games or I made great plays, our car rides were filled with vivid accounts of the victory and laughing and cheering and ice cream stops before we headed for home.

  A part of me understood it—a parent’s desire for the best from their child. An expectation of perfection because they know “better and best” are somewhere down deep, past the blood and the sweat and the tears. I really didn’t blame my dad. It all seemed like an emotional rollercoaster, but in many ways I appreciated how hard he pushed me. I was a stubborn teen who needed pushing. But the problem that was building was a problem we all face when we exalt wrecked idols and anxiously await their affirmation and praise. We come to the conclusion that love is works-based. That when we do the wrong things we are loved less. And when we do the right things we are loved more. Our concept of unconditional love actually feels a lot like conditional love—with the conditions being our work, our abilities, our failures, and our strength. What’s most dangerous about our picture of love being painted around such a deceitful mentality is that our perception of God’s love for us mirrors it. We’re too preoccupied with winning favor to hear that it’s not the same type of love in God’s economy.

  My fixation on winning the favor of a fickle father owned me. Perfectionism poured from me. A thirst for success led me as I set my eyes on a transition I’d been anxiously waiting to step into for a while.

  High school.

  A new opportunity to be an even better me.

  3

  Watch Me Work

  There were a number of things I wanted to control. We’ve all known that feeling, haven’t we?

  I had always been a dominant personality. That was nothing new. Any tangible control I could have over something, I relished. I was the type of girl who kept my middle school locker religiously organized, who practiced perfect penmanship with my right and left hands, who orchestrated the games at recess and assigned nonnegotiable roles for each person playing. I was a force. An expert at the art of subtle manipulation—using my size or my charm or my words to get my way.

  A natural-born leader, they would say. Maybe. But also naturally stubborn and fiercely self-willed. I had a drive and desire to dictate my success that was far beyond my years. It was a characteristic that would serve me well in some ways, once molded over time, but proved to cause more alienation than achievement when I was young.

  It’s not that the shift from middle school to high school was some type of radical transition. But it was a transition. And with a change in surroundings came the opportunity to control several new things. It seems like the transitions in life—the times where so much is so unpredictable and so little is truly in our control—are often the times we crave control the most. Where we become most restless and self-focused. This shift in my life was no exception.

  I feel like that longing for control is woven through each of us. Control over something. Anything. It’s engrained in us. A deep desire for autonomy and ownership. An overwhelming responsibility to claim possession of our own lives.

  We’re told that’s what marks a successful life in our society. The self-made millionaire. The rags-to-riches story fueled by self-control and personal strength and individual willpower. Maybe, just maybe, if we can control enough in our lives we can map our own course. And maybe, if we’re good enough, that course will lead to the life we planned for ourselves. To success. And excess. And worth.

  Maybe if we can singlehandedly control where all the cards fall, we can live up to the world’s expectation of us. To our parents’ expectation of us. To our own expectation of us.

  Maybe.

  Or maybe, just maybe, we’re missing the point.

  My Predetermined Plans

  I was entering high school wide-eyed and success-driven. With newfound freedoms came newfound goals. There were so many components of my life that I had predetermined were going to look a certain way.

  Athletically, soccer was at the foundation of my identity. Not only was it a pursuit of mine sure to garner my dad’s attention and praise but it was also a pursuit I knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, I was naturally gifted in. Soccer was my thing—it always had been. From the first time I slid on a pair of goalkeeper gloves there was an instinctual awareness and a raw talent that I wore like badges of honor. There was also a strong work ethic to back it up and an ego-driven thirst to be the best.

  I was on the State Olympic Development team at the time. I had goals to make the Regional Olympic Team, the US National Team for my age group, in order to garner a college scholarship. I wanted to make the varsity high school team as a freshman and really wasn’t planning on settling for anything less than what my arrogance had deemed possible. I had made a name for myself in the soccer community up until that point. And now, with colleges watching and more notoriety on the line, it was time to show up and show out.

  At the same time, I desired greater control over another extracurricular interest of mine—entertainment. I had grown up dabbling in professional acting and radio work. From working as the first Atlanta Radio Disney Kid Correspondent, to being named the “Youngest Sportscaster in America” and cohosting my own sports-talk radio show on AM 790 The Zone, to shooting a nationally run television commercial and various video series, I was no stranger to microphones and cameras. I had always been comfortable in an audition room with a panel of casting directors. Auditioning for movies like Remember the Titans and television shows like Lizzie McGuire, I had marked my adolescence with a bold confidence and a fearless, if somewhat oblivious, mentality regarding the pressures and scrutiny of the entertainment industry.

  But as I moved into high school and began to mature physically, the dynamic of the industry seemed to waste no time in raising the bar toward new and different expectations. My mind also seemed to waste no time in desiring to control my entertainment-related success in a new way. Fun commercial auditions evolved into meatier, more involved roles that were few and f
ar between if I didn’t possess the right “look.” Silly radio auditions evolved into in-person “cattle calls” at a prestigious modeling agency. Playful video shoots evolved into the world of beauty pageants, swimsuits, gowns, and more scrutiny. I yearned to control my success in every avenue of entertainment—if not for the money, then for the recognition. Where soccer was my daddy-daughter lifeline, pageants and performance were my mom’s and my playing fields. The perfectionist in me longed to be equally successful in everything I did.

  Relationships were another piece of the puzzle I wanted to dictate. It was no mystery that my relationship with my dad was constantly in flux. Still consumed by achievements warranting his praise and failures inviting his frustration and silence, I wanted this new chapter of my life to turn a page on the tension of our past and bring some stability. I wanted to control how our relationship would continue to play out and I, idealistically, wanted to be able to control my success to the point that he would never have reason to be disappointed or angry with me again.

  I also had a deep desire to control how my friendships played out, as well as how boys perceived me. Coming into my own and trying to navigate maturity, I was starting to focus heavily on the praise and attention I could get from boys. High school boys seemed so different from middle school boys. I had been much taller than most of the boys in middle school and was looking forward to stepping into high school and garnering the attention I knew I was bound to naturally receive as a new freshman on campus. It was important to me—to my worth and to my self-confidence—that I be a topic of conversation with the guys. That I be somewhat envied and looked up to by the girls. What young girl doesn’t desire to be praised and affirmed and wanted? It’s half the reason we take so long to get ready in the mornings. It’s part of why we learn how to do our hair, how to dress well, and how to paint our faces with makeup. Deep down, young girls—even self-proclaimed tomboys—desire to feel beautiful. At that age, the eyes and attention of peers seem to be the clearest gauge of that worth.

  But above all, I wanted control socially. When I stepped into high school, I wanted to be able to determine who I would connect with, where I would fit in, and what social group I would be a part of. The transition held so many unknowns because each new freshman class was made up of chunks of students from several different middle schools merging together. Add all of the older and more experienced upper classmen into the mix, and it made the social scene as intimidating as it was unpredictable. It’s not that I foresaw myself being the most popular girl in school, but I hoped to be accepted by the popular crowd. Whoever the “popular crowd” was supposed to be. It was important to me that I socially “fit.” After all, I was a confident and competent girl. I had athletic gifts, an impressive entertainment résumé, and an outgoing personality. In my mind, I was primed to move into high school with ease and control. My security was built on my assumption that my predetermined plans would play out exactly as I’d prepared. My identity hung in the balance of my strength, my discipline, and my control.

  I paid little regard to my faith. I was comfortable. Comfortable with the cultural Christianity I’d walked through for years. Comfortable with claiming the title, praying when it was convenient, and talking the talk along the way. The faith walk I knew hadn’t proven to be anything less than enough yet, so any intentionality or focus on growing my faith as I transitioned into this new season of life was an afterthought. In fact, the only subconscious mindset I had surrounding any component of faith was simple—God, watch me work.

  It wasn’t that I turned my back on God but rather that I turned all of my focus toward myself. My work, my goals, my plans, my success. In fact, I often rationalized that since apparently God had set the stage for me in many regards, it was now my responsibility to perform on that stage and succeed. I was convinced that my own personal strength and internal drive were solely responsible for controlling the outcome of my story, and my pride moved God to the back burner, placing a weight far greater than I could bear on my own two shoulders.

  Captivated by Control

  It wasn’t long before my hunger for control left me unexpectedly starved. When I did finally enter high school, I quickly realized I had little control over anything at all. And I most clearly lacked control over the things that were the most important to me at the time.

  There were girls on the soccer field who were stronger, better, and faster than I was. There were girls in the Olympic Development Program advancing through the ranks of teams faster than I could keep up with—surpassing their state teams and moving on to Regional Olympic teams, National Olympic camps, and international competitions. While I was still a top-ranking player within my age group, I couldn’t help but covet the promotion and success of the other top players around me. I was constantly tuned in to what colleges they were hearing from, who was playing where, and what the coaches were saying about different positional players and goalkeepers.

  My dad stayed tuned in to all of the updates and newsworthy sideline talk as well. And while he certainly never made me feel less than capable of working my way to the top, I couldn’t help but grow anxious about what he might be thinking, what more I could be doing to impress him, and how I could make him as proud as possible. His hopes for my future seemed as insatiable as my desperate desire to make that future a reality.

  As college coaches began attending my games, I felt an added pressure to perform perfectly. As recruiters filled the Olympic training camps, my mind became more occupied with assessing who was watching and wondering what they were thinking than focused on the game and enjoying the experience. I became fixated with seeing to it that I was constantly making an impression. Obsessed with wondering if my name was on the coaches’ lips. Consumed with analyzing my performance post-game—the things I did right, the things I did wrong, what people may have thought. In my desperation for control, I was losing control—and losing perspective on the purpose of even playing the sport.

  On the entertainment side of things, my controlling and overanalytical mind invited me down another disjointed path. With fewer and fewer auditions coming in as my casting demographic shifted to an older, more developed range, I was already wrestling with insecurity surrounding my “look” and my potential future in the industry. According to casting directors, my look was too exotic to be commercial and too commercial to be exotic. I was too tall to be cast for younger roles and too young-looking to pass for roles that would warrant my height. I was too athletically built to be cast next to smaller boys but not athletically built enough to be used for fitness-specific jobs. In summary, I was stuck in no-man’s-land and felt, most of the time, like I simply wasn’t enough of any one thing to be successful. Which felt, most days, like I wasn’t enough. At all.

  Pageants were a whole new ballgame, but one that ran in my blood. My mom, after all, had been a pageant queen multiple times. She held four crowns through her youth and placed third-runner-up to Miss Alabama in 1979. While she attended Troy State University on a leadership scholarship through the Girls State program, her scholarship was financially supplemented by pageant money she’d won as well. I wanted, desperately, to be as successful as my mommy had been in a field she enjoyed so much.

  I’ll never forget the day I sat at an interview table with a Miss Georgia Teen USA pageant judge. We had completed pre-judging for the swimsuit portion of the competition earlier that day for the same panel of judges, and I had walked as tall and as proud as any fifteen-year-old in that convention center. With two swatches of fabric covering my body and the required three-inch heels strapped to my feet, I had mustered the bravery to flaunt my muscular, athletic physique with as much pride as I knew how. On the stage I felt confident and beautiful and in control. But for whatever reason, sitting in that chair, with the undivided attention of a judge just a few feet away, my mind sprinted through what he might be thinking.

  Does he like me? Does he remember me from the swimsuit pre-judging? Did I make an impression?

  “Y
ou’re bio says you’re an athlete,” he said as he stared at me with as blank an expression as I’d ever seen.

  Is that an advantage for me? Is he saying that in a favorable way? Has a competitive athlete ever won this pageant?

  “Yes, I am! I’ve been playing soccer for most of my life. I’m a goalkeeper and I compete on the Olympic Development team for our state,” I replied. Still trying to read his blank, unfazed expression, I worked to ease the pressure of the moment with more words. “It’s very fun. A lot of running, a lot of diving around the net to make saves. It certainly helps put on plenty of muscle!”

  Before I could sling a smile across my face, his next words caught me so off-guard I’ve never forgotten the moment. With bulging eyes, he scanned my body up and down as I sat in my ironed interview suit and simply said in a very condescending tone, “I was at the swimsuit judging. Trust me, I could tell.”

  And with those few words, a piercing eye-roll, and a few unknown notes written down on his evaluation sheet, I wanted nothing more than to sink into my chair and disappear from the room. I remember feeling, for the very first time, like there was something wrong with my body. Sure, I had always wrestled with some insecurity about my height, but that was nothing I could control. Now, sitting in front of an adult—an adult experienced in judging and evaluating a certain standard of physical beauty—I felt I was inadequate. And as a fifteen-year-old girl I first began to truly believe the lie that I didn’t measure up. That my body wasn’t good enough.

  And, with that, another layer of control slipped from my grasp.

  Control over the relationships in my life seemed to slide from my grip just as quickly. At home, my dad’s moods were becoming increasingly unpredictable. Where I had desired, so deeply, to tread carefully in his wake and keep the peace and stability between us, I had quickly fallen short. Between his demanding expectations of my grades, athletic performances, and obedience and my stubborn personality, resentment toward his pornography struggles and laziness, and brazen disobedience in an effort to navigate the changing hormones that came along with maturity and growth, the tension was always unpredictable in our house. Some days we were inseparable, bound at the hip and running all around town together. Other days we were passive-aggressive and temperamental.