Soundtrack Of A Misfit: Adventures in ADD & Addiction

Soundtrack of a Misfit

Adventures in ADD & Addiction

By Rachel Leigh Wills

www.Rachelleighwills.com [email protected]

202.579.1144 (Google Voice)

April 21, 2021

Table of Contents

FOREWORD

INTRODUCTION

CHAPTER 1 – FAMILY PORTRAIT

CHAPTER 2 – SOUND OF SMALLNESS

CHAPTER 3 – BIG FISH

CHAPTER 4 – INITIATIONS

CHAPTER 5 – YOU’VE GOT A FRIEND

CHAPTER 6 – PUNK-ISH GIRL

CHAPTER 7 – LEAN ON ME

CHAPTER 8 – DON’T YOU (FORGET ABOUT ME)

CHAPTER 9 – EUPHORIA MOURNING

CHAPTER 10 – POETESS OF PROTEST

CHAPTER 11 – THE DEVIL & MARY JANE

CHAPTER 12 – HOP ON THE BUS

CHAPTER 13 – EMANCIPATION & REVELATION

CHAPTER 14 – METAMORPHOSIS

CHAPTER 15 – ADD

CHAPTER 16 – DIRTY TUBS

CHAPTER 17 – CALIFORNIA LOVE

CHAPTER 18 – LOCK & LOAD

CHAPTER 19 – COME TALK TO ME

EPILOGUE

The Greatest—A Call to Action

Author Bio

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS & FOOTNOTES

FOREWORD

You’re a misfit. So am I. But this is the book that finally, at long last, gives us permission to own it. Fully, boldly, ferociously, and unapologetically, through Rachel’s adventure that will set your senses ablaze.

Being a misfit has always been woven into my DNA (which is why my outlet has been stand-up comedy since the Clinton years, and Sweet Jesus was that era the gift that kept on giving…), but rarely have I seen a work of literature that captures its essence quite like this one. Because each one of us has some level of misfit woven in. Rachel’s journey encapsulates it to the very last detail.

Over the past decade, I’ve had the privilege of writing for some of the most famous people I’m not allowed to mention, or I’ll break our confidentiality agreements and get sued, but one thing I’ve learned from working with them is this—whether they were NFL hall-of-famers, U.S. Senators who were in front of the cameras all day or award-winning neurosurgeons, they were all misfits. There was a part of them that wasn’t quite right. Even the most accomplished, most impressive superstars among them.

The label of misfit has been one I’ve also been proud to own myself, ever since I was a child, and, like Rachel, was cast aside for being different. For having a brain that didn’t quite fit with the rest. For having the attention span of a drunken gnat. And for daring to not find boring, mundane things as interesting as I was told they needed to be.

Rachel’s journey through the world of addiction, fractured relationships, self-loss, and self-discovery is one that every misfit can relate to on a visceral level. It illustrates a life on the edges as well as any book possibly could and gets into the gritty details of an existence spent searching.

So often in life, we’re told to sit down, shut up and blend in. But for so many of us, and I suspect, you as well, that simply wasn’t an option. There was more to see. More to experience. More to enjoy. And a different perception around each one of those life checkmarks that enriched the experience beyond our wildest dreams. But only if we accepted that we were different. And that’s a difficult road to travel for most.

Rachel’s memoir is the road that each of us will take to heart in a singular way. It’s misfitting 101. It’s the blueprint for how to come full circle and embrace the crazy, make love to the divergent and become one with the offbeat.

If this book leaves you half as inspired as it left me, you will still be buzzing for days after you’ve finished it.

Geoff Woliner, Founder, Winning Wit

www.Facebook.com/WinningWit

www.GeoffWoliner.com

@WinningWit

Dedication

Soundtrack Of A Misfit is dedicated to the rugged, wildflowers among us who show the full spectrum of their riotous beauty. We are not misfits. We break the molds, color outside the lines, and dance to the beat of our own inner soundtracks. Rock on!

INTRODUCTION

Reading and writing have been woven into the fibers of my being from birth. My mom read aloud to me nightly from my favorite books, until I could read them myself at the early age of three and a half. Writing was more difficult for me to master. It was already evident by age five that I didn’t have the same degree of eye-hand coordination as other kids my age. I was taught cursive writing in the first grade because my teachers believed it would be easier for me to write if I didn’t have to constantly pick up my pen to make the various parts of the printed alphabet. Take that, Leo the Late Bloomer!

Leo was a late blooming tiger in a childhood book I adored because I related to him. Despite being young, I identified with the concept of otherness. I was different from others. I used cursive, whereas everyone else used print.

I absentmindedly made careless errors on schoolwork and acted impulsively, heedless of the potential consequences. Most kids I knew were able to demonstrate restraint when they got ideas and they weren’t sure about their consequences. Not me. The moment I had an idea, I acted on it. My impulse usually led to significant albeit unintended consequences.

I accidentally set off our home smoke detector, ruined landscaping, and made a mess in the kitchen. One time for Valentine’s Day, I wanted to surprise my mom and stepdad with a homemade cake. I baked a pretty yummy cake, but the entire kitchen was covered in a thick film of flour and frosting. It took my mom weeks to clean it from the nooks and crannies of the kitchen. She was mostly furious with me and only slightly touched by my intended act of kindness. I coined the most overused acronym in my household – IDDIOP - I Didn’t Do It On Purpose!

Like a first grader, I asked "Why? so often when given instructions that my mom and stepdad yelled at me for being stubborn and argumentative (how’s that for irony?). I sought to understand the meaning behind others’ suggestions or instructions when I asked why. I wouldn’t agree to anything unless I understood the why" of it. I never outgrew this type of questioning.

I became more impulsive and unintentionally divisive the older I became. I longed for my parents (I refer to my mom and stepdad as my parents) to praise me for my brave ambitions, such as becoming a punk rocker but all I ever heard was, Rach, your head is in the clouds. Put your feet on the ground. I knew I had it in me to become a scuba-diving paleontologist who sang in a rock band, but my parents saw me as unfocused and all over the place. I longed to be bold and rebellious like those I literally, as well as physically, looked up to.

I was also smaller than everyone else in my classes—always. In junior high school my mom took me to Children’s Hospital in Washington, DC, to be tested for a possible genetic growth disorder. Even though everyone on both sides of my family was small except for my mom and her brother, I was the shortest.

My younger sister was taller than me by that time and she was just ten years old. At the hospital, Dr. Well Hung (yes, that was his name) informed my mom and me that I was fine. I was just constitutionally short. My mom and I broke out in tears. We weren’t crying out of relief or sadness but from the insinuated irony of the doctor’s name.

I grew proportionately, meaning that I didn’t have any features that are common among individuals with dwarfism. But I’m all of 4’10.5, technically a half-inch taller than a Little Person." At age 49, I will not accept that I will soon start shrinking. I’m afraid I’ll become like Lily Tomlin’s character in the movie, The Incredible Shrinking Woman.

As I matured, my otherness revealed itself in other ways. I didn’t get sarcasm. I was a literal thinker. And I often struggled to get my point across to others even when I knew exactly what I was trying to say. My sense of timing was also different from everyone else I knew. I knew how to tell time at the age of six because the Roto-Rooter man at our house taught me. He was at our house (for what seemed like an eternity) trying to fix something in our basement. He got tired of my not knowing how to answer him whenever he asked me what time it was.

I can tell time but time as a construct, at being fixed at a certain point, baffles me. Albert Einstein once said that time is the thing that keeps everything from happening at once. But in my inner world, everything felt like it did happen at once. I didn’t get how I could get into bed at 8:30 p.m. to read my book and the next time I looked up it was suddenly 11 p.m. My mom would stride down the hallway and kindly but firmly say, Rach, close your book. It’s time to go to bed. You have school in the morning. I also didn’t get time management despite understanding the benefit of and need for it.

My stepdad, David, moved in when I was nine. He was a mechanical engineer with a specialty in electronics packaging. I already liked him, but I thought he was the most anal-retentive man ever. He didn’t understand, for the life of him, why I couldn’t get myself out the door on time when I was old enough to be able to. We had yelling matches, One minute, DP (my nickname for him as his last name is Perlmutter), I have to go back inside. I forgot my coat. I grabbed my coat and pulled the door locked behind me and started walking to the bus stop.

Two minutes later I’d walk back into the house. I forgot my lunch. David would cry in exasperation, Rach, you missed the bus. Let’s go now. In the car. I’ll drive you on my way to work. Being uber-sensitive, I’d get into the passenger seat and snivel all the way to school. I cried if my sister, named Stacey, looked at me wrong. I cried often at our nightly family dinners. In fact, my mom, DP, and Stacey placed bets on who would make me cry before we sat down to eat. Their teasing wasn’t malicious. It was intended to get me to laugh at myself or at least to get me to laugh along with them. I however, felt like I’d been roughly exfoliated from head to toe. I was constantly told to grow a thicker skin and I didn’t know how to.

At school, the ribbing was worse. I was taunted about being the shortest one in school. In the eighties, there was no shortage of short comparisons: Monchichi, Chia Pet, Shrinky Dink, Smurfette. I was also teased for the hump in the middle of my witchy, Jewish nose from the time I was in elementary school until I had it cosmetically altered at the age of 16. I also experienced less overt forms of anti-Semitism. After I got my nose fixed, people who hadn’t known about my pre-nose job made remarks like I didn’t know you were Jewish, You don’t look Jewish; your hair is blond and straight. Years later, I would feel like a misfit even among my own people because I was the one with the tattoos.

My otherness wasn’t all bad. I tended to be more reflective and empathetic than others. I had more vivid dreams than anyone I knew. Sometimes I even had lucid dreams. Other times, I was able to influence the content of my dreams by purposefully telling myself what I would dream about that night. My family was amazed by the feature-length film quality of them. As I got older, I wrote them down in my journals and entertained family and friends by reading them aloud to them.

I was also very imaginative. I could amuse myself for hours by writing poems and turning creeks and woods into magical worlds well into my teens when most girls my age had outgrown play and were deep into play-adulting. I was curious, spontaneous, and brave! And I always had good intentions even when things went awry. My mom used to counter all my IDDIOPs by saying, The road to Hell is paved with good intentions.

I had a highly developed sense of right and wrong, but I lacked what most people refer to as common sense. My mom often asked, Rach, what did you think would happen when you did x, y, or z? I answered, I don’t know. I didn’t think about it. And it wasn’t that I didn’t think. I thought all the time —so much so, that it took me hours to fall asleep at night because I couldn’t stop thinking. I was furious with myself whenever I got into trouble for my apparent lack of thinking. Thinking and timing are integrally linked for many people, but they don’t logically go together for me.

In the book Is It You, Is It Me, Or Is It Adult ADD, author Gina Pera explains that individuals with ADD experience time as being ‘now’ or ‘not now.’ This is how my impulsiveness manifested itself. I did think about things, but I couldn’t wait for now. I needed instant gratification because I couldn’t stand the feeling of self-explosion, the degree of anxiety I experienced if I were made to wait for anything. I couldn’t wait because waiting meant not thinking, which I couldn’t stop doing.

I wasn’t intentionally a bad daughter, student, friend, or employee—I was a curious and confused one. A lot of life went over my head. Sadly, the older I got, the more self-destructive my behaviors became and the more urgently I needed a means of escaping from both myself and reality. When I was younger, I was able to escape the heaviness of reality through listening to music and playing outdoors. Music and nature were my ideas of sheer bliss. My mom calls me her flower child because of this.

Even when I was two, I literally danced to the downbeats of music and the Beat of my own drum. I could listen to music or play at the neighborhood creek for hours and all by myself. Playing outdoors made me feel less small because everything was small in comparison to the trees and the sky. Nature gave me a sense of peace and made me feel less alone. Aloneness has always been a mixed bag for me. I’m introverted and crave peace and solitude as sources of refuge and recharge. I like to be alone—not feel alone. I hate feeling alone. I always felt alone when I was growing up —even with my family.

It became even harder to balance the scales of belonging and aloneness once I hit puberty. In junior high, I shut myself in my room for hours at a time. I turned my stereo/cassette player on and listened to Duran Duran, Howard Jones, and OMD. I sang along with the heady and often overwrought lyrics and wrote and wrote and wrote in my journals.

After college, I added alcohol and marijuana to the things I did alone in my room. In keeping with my late bloomer ways, I began drinking at 19 but began partying hard at 25, an age when most others slowed down and gave up their evil ways. I was just getting into counterculture when most had already conformed to society’s standards of adulthood. They were done with their personal rebellions but mine had just begun.

I wasn’t embattled simply because I wanted to wage war against my parents, friends, and society or because it simply felt good. I did so because I was lost within. I couldn’t see any other way to get through or by in life. Euphoric nights of chemical escape turned into euphoric mourning, to paraphrase and pay homage to one of my musical heroes, Chris Cornell.

This book is equal parts wreckage and resurrection. It’s my personal anthem. It tells the story of how I discovered that my otherness was due to my having Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD [or more commonly called ADD]). I didn’t learn to embrace my being different until I was 36 —nine years after my ADHD diagnosis —when I entered recovery.

Today, I take a certain sense of pride in being a rogue, disorderly dandelion among a battalion of neatly planted roses. Today, I own who I am. I’m bisexual. I’m a writer and a mental health therapist. I’m a wife and a mom (to an adorable black cat and an aging beagle-dachshund). I’m a Jewish, badass earth mother, punkish, ADHD wildflower. I hope my story will help you if you’re wrestling with ADHD or chemical dependency, have a love of adventure, are sexually fluid, or are kindred wandering Jew.

Note: I’ve changed some names and places to protect individual and workplace anonymity.

Spoiler alert: my paragraphs might seem disjointed in some places, but my editor and book coach suggested leaving my work as is. He argued, and rightfully so, that it gives a truer representation of who I am, being an individual with ADD.

CHAPTER 1 – FAMILY PORTRAIT

The morning my dad moved out of our house, both my mom and my dad took Stacey and me to school to tell our teachers the news. It was the worst day of my life. Stacey’s stupid teacher made it worse because she got the two of us mixed up.

What is worse than being mistaken for a first grader when you’re in the third grade? Our dad’s moving out. The double dose of evil was like pouring salt on a festering wound.

I wish I could say that my dad had no part in my stepdad David’s moving in with us. It would’ve made my mom’s newfound happiness with him easier to stomach. My mom and DP’s love would’ve been more like a fairy tale if my dad wasn’t THE key factor in their getting together. But what Disney story begins with the king introducing the queen to a better man? What fairy tale ends with its two young heroines being neither truly abandoned nor rescued by the voluntarily ousted king? That story doesn’t exist because its plot is too confusing.

How DP came to live with us depended upon whether my mom or dad told the story. If you wanted to remain in the castle, it was important to believe my mom’s version. It was truly only a matter of semantics anyways. My dad’s version went like this:

Rach I’m not the type of husband who takes out the trash or does chores without being nagged. I’m never going to be the dad who remembers dance recitals and horse shows. But David is that guy. I want that for you girls, and I want your mom to be happy, too, so I’m going to step aside and let David take care of the three of you. I can’t think of a better man for you girls.

My mom’s version went like this:

One day your dad pulled David aside and confidentially but likely not too quietly declared, You should fuck Cookie. She’s a good lay. Anyways, she’s made it clear that she doesn’t want me around anymore.

I think my dad’s version of the story was a PG equivalent of his inner monologue. It was important to him that he saw himself as the hero in this docudrama. I also believe that my mom’s recounting is closer to reality. My dad left one day, and DP moved in the next. It didn’t take any of us long to realize the irony of the new order. My dad was the consolation prize —not DP. If Stacey and I were desert saguaros that reached skyward with prickly limbs outstretched, then DP was rain sent from heaven. The skies opened to herald his arrival and our home smelled as fragrant and as wonderful as petrichor.

Don’t get me wrong; things were awkward at first. Stacey desperately wanted to sit on DP’s lap. She lived life either bouncing around like Tigger or glued to my mom or my dad’s legs but she was too shy to accept DP’s overtures. And I didn’t take well to being corrected by him every time I wanted his help to reach a cup from high kitchen cabinets that I needed a stepstool to reach. I’d ask for a cup and he would say, Oh, you mean a glass. Cups are plastic. It was infuriating.

When our dad lived with us, their bedroom door was always open. We climbed into bed with them when we had bad dreams and hopped on the bed to snuggle every morning upon awakening. My dad especially loved to snuggle. Afterward, he got up and made us pancakes and ham. My mom insists that it was turkey bacon but I’m sticking with my memory.

With DP’s arrival, the bedroom door was perpetually closed. He required privacy. Many of my memories before he moved in were blocked by my brain. The clinical term for this is dissociation. It’s how our brains protect our bodies from experiencing intense physical and emotional pain. To try to make sense of things, Stacey and I had to adapt. Since time as a construct was muddled and raucous, we learned to measure it differently. We would often remark Was that before or after we got DP?

DP hates my description of how we got him. He says it makes him feel like we bought him from a used parts store but it’s how Stacey and I mentally document our family chronology. DP made me realize and grudgingly accept that structure isn’t synonymous with torture. He also helped me to see how I benefited from adding order to my life. My natural structure free soundtrack sounded like this:

I need to do my homework but, look, a squirrel! OK. I need to finish this task. But wait, look what I found! What was I supposed to be doing? Right, I’m supposed to be doing a load of laundry. Wait, I’m hungry. I better grab a snack. Ooh, what are you doing, DP?

My music sounded like a gently flowing stream, interrupted here and there by chirping. While I flitted from one thing to another like a songbird, Stacey never stopped moving! I got distracted by movement, whereas she lost her mind when made to sit still. We dubbed her the whirling dervish. Stacey was vibrant and graceful, always engaged in a complexly choreographed ballet. She's the rhythm to my melody. In music, these opposites make for either harmony or discordance.

By the time our dad left, my mom was a weary composer. She raised us as a single mom until DP’s arrival because my dad wasn’t what my mom considered to be consistently reliable. When DP moved in, our mom finally had the choreographic partner she needed. DP helped raise his own kids, Mike, and Debbie, at least until he came to live with us. It saddened me to think about how much they must’ve missed him, but I was more grateful that we got him.

DP and my mom were on the same page when it came to parenting. There was no more good cop-bad cop shtick now that my mom had backup. If my mom and DP got hung up on discipline or guidance, Stacey and I never knew it because it seemed like they effortlessly co-parented and orchestrated things.

Everyone flourished and floundered together under this new conductorship. No one was a lone instrument. The walls no longer echoed with our dad’s thunderous voice. And the house no longer felt devoid of a male’s presence. I truly don’t know how we would’ve survived without our stepdad. There were times when our parents were our life rafts. Since DP entered our lives, there’s been no doubt about who I’m referring to when I say, my parents.

Our dad wasted no time moving in with a new family. I don’t remember the kids because they were older than we were, but I know they existed. The other woman, Annie, was a close second to Cruella De Vil. She had the longest nails I ever saw. She once accidentally scratched Stacey’s bottom with them when she was helping to dry her off after a shower.

Annie became just one of the many women who vied for my dad’s affection over the years. Before my mom and dad separated, it didn’t seem like such a big deal that my dad was sometimes gone for weeks at a time. We knew he would always come back. Even living with Annie, he wasn’t but a mile or two away from us. But on the day, he announced his move out of town, the time and space continuum sealed. I struggled to grasp why, when he was already out of the house, did he need to move even further away? Did he still love Stacey and me? Did I do something wrong? Am I the reason my parents’ marriage didn’t work? Did I require too much attention? I know my dad was often frustrated with the slow pace at which I moved.

Our dad moved to Philadelphia shortly after moving in with Annie, or so it seemed. His relocation brought on a new line of questioning: Where is Philadelphia? How far away is it? Are you ever coming back? My dad moved out, moved in with another family, and then moved to another state in rapid succession. It made me sick.

I got horrible staph infections on my tush, legs, and sides. It was DP who tended to me. He microwaved wet washcloths until they were hotter than I could stand. I had to burn myself by placing them on the infected spot until the ugly green head of the boils softened up enough to pop. My mom took over then, squeezing the life out of the greenish-yellow oozing bubbles until no pus was left in them. I wailed in pain each time she performed this ritual.

My tush was so sore that I had to bring a plastic yellow, smiley-face cushion to school so I could sit without too much pain. It was embarrassing. One pus-filled monstrosity was on my left calf just a short distance below the circular scar I still bear from being hit by fireworks the year prior. That staph infection was so bad it had to be lanced by a doctor who I accidentally kicked in the face due to the pain.

Then there were the women. In my mind, that is the exact sequence of events. I got staph infections and then, my dad dated. There was Bonnie, a blond, pixie-haired teacher. She was nice, but my dad thought she was too normal. Then there was Rosie, who was anything but ordinary. I adored her because she was both a bohemian and a Valkyrie. She had thick, long, unruly dirty-blond curls and was the tallest, most fulsome woman I ever saw or have seen since. Rosie was an artist. She made funky necklaces out of teeny plastic animals, amulets, and other random miniature objects. I often wondered what my dad’s life would look like had he stayed with her.

Then there was Ellen. She ended my dad’s dating habit because they got married. Ellen came with two children, Robbie, and Marci. Robbie was a couple years older than I was and Marci was the same age as my sister. Ellen lived in a big house in a suburb of Philly. Her downstairs furniture was oddly and eerily all covered in plastic. It was clear that a messy young girl like me who liked to play in the dirt wasn’t welcome. Easy-breezy Stacey had no problems making friends with Marci. Sometimes I’d join them in whatever it was they did together. And sometimes I’d hang out with Robbie who I thought was cute and cool because he listened to Billy Idol.

I honestly don’t remember much from this period of my life. It wasn’t a happy one. The only happy memory I have from the Ellen Period involves their maid, Susan. She was from the Caribbean. I don’t know how old she was, but she was comfort. Ellen didn’t cook at all but Susan made tasty homemade meals. She always had her Christian Bible radio programs on. Sometimes I’d sit and listen to her just to be near someone warm.

Exchange Weekends

Before my dad got remarried, Stacey and I often took a Greyhound bus up to see him —or we did until a perverted old man tried to get one of us to sit with him and not next to him but on his lap. The exchange weekend was the result. These were weekends when my mom and DP drove Stacey and me two hours into Delaware, where our dad was supposed to pick us up at Christiana Mall. When he showed up for these weekends, he would then drive us the remaining hour-and-a-half to his bachelor pad in Center City Philadelphia.

Some weekends, he arrived hours late. Our mom and DP would try to make things easier by treating us to ice cream and shopping. But there were also numerous times when our dad just never showed. I don’t remember these times, as they were too painful for my nine-year-old brain to acknowledge and process. I wish my mom and David could’ve forgotten these times too. It made it harder for them to hear about any quality time Stacey, and I had with our dad. My parents sadly remember all too clearly how they were left to console two distraught young girls on so many occasions.

There was the time when our dad drove Stacey and me back home to Gaithersburg two days earlier than he, my mom, and DP agreed upon. This would’ve been okay had she and DP been home or even in the country. They were on some island scuba diving. My dad didn’t stay with us in our house until they returned like a responsible parent but deposited us like we were luggage. He left us at a family friend’s home unannounced.

If my dad always stood us up, it would’ve been easier to turn him into a villain. But Stacey and I also had lots of fun times with him. He lived downtown near the Free Library near two tall towers or office buildings. Somewhere near there was a city park where we’d go roller-skating while my dad smoked a cigar and watched us from a bench. Sometimes, he took us to the Franklin Institute or the Philadelphia Zoo. Once, my dad had me come up by myself for a weekend and surprised me by taking me to see a stage performance of the musical Annie.

I came back home singing Tomorrow and Hard Knock Life and I especially loved to belt them out emphatically whenever I was pissed at my parents and missed my dad. Every time my dad drove Stacey and I back from Philly to Gaitherspatch, our condescending nickname for Gaithersburg, we sang our favorite rendition of Kenny Rogers’ song Lucille. The original song referenced four hungry children and a crop in the field, but we changed the lyrics to You picked a fine time to leave me, Cookie. Two hungry children and a kick in the rear.

Our dad also gave Stacey and me cursing minutes when he timed one minute and allowed us to scream as many curse words as we knew. My mom was more proper when it came to language. She got angry with us for saying mad instead of angry. She always said, Horses get mad; people get angry. Whenever we came back from visiting with our dad, she remarked, You two sound just like your father. You curse like sailors! I smiled inside whenever she said that. I didn’t think there was anything wrong with sailors —especially if they got to curse for a living.

1981 was one of the most traumatic years of my life but the years before that were like living in Disney’s Fantasia. It was a musically miasmic era. The Dad Days and David Days blurred, as did the sounds of good days and bad ones. Life sounded like an out-of-tune marching band going back and forth in time.

CHAPTER 2 – SOUND OF SMALLNESS

In 1974, I was three years old. I was given a red plastic record player that year as a Hanukkah gift. Band on the Run by Paul McCartney and Wings was just released. It was my favorite song. I played it daily on that record player along with my age-appropriate Disney favorites. I didn’t know any other kids my age who collected records, but I was obsessed. I recall that my mom taught me to delicately hold them on their sides so that I wouldn’t get them dirty or break them. I tried to be careful, but even 45s were too large for my tiny hands. I loved studying the record’s concentric circles and watching them get all wavy as the player’s needle meandered around them.

Two years later, I was listening to the newest musical genre: disco. People in Fort Lauderdale (where we lived at the time) were high on marijuana, cocaine, and Disco Fever. I was in kindergarten then, so I alternated between listening to Hooked on Phonics and Disco. I was a mimic of my dad and uncles Jon and David. Every sentence they uttered began with groovy this and jive turkey that. Disco Duck, Car Wash, Bohemian Rhapsody, and Fly Like an Eagle were in constant rotation on the radio and on my red record player. I remember driving around with Uncle Jon listening to the Bee Gees and feeling that all was right with the world.

Listening to music was my primary means of refuge. I used music, even at the age of five, to help me to figure out how I felt and to better express myself. It was hard for me to figure out how I felt inside. I struggled to find the right words to describe my emotions because they were more complex than my vocabulary. Music provided me with a safe space to help me listen to myself and to calmly figure out what to say and how to say it. Music has always helped me to clearly delineate the chapters of my life. Whenever I replay scenes in my mind, I’m transported back through time to them via the songs I listened to back when ….

The upbeat melodies of Barry Manilow and Neil Diamond evoke nostalgia for Sunday chore day in my household in the days after we got DP. I love thinking back to the happiness of those days. We were in our individual rooms or tidying up different parts of the house but united through our stereo’s eight-track deck blaring Jewish music throughout our home. My mom, Stacey and I sang along and tone-deaf DP whistled along to Copacabana by Barry Manilow and Kentucky Woman by Neil Diamond. We called Kentucky Woman my song because I was born in Louisville, Kentucky.

By the time I was in high school, I practically locked myself in my bedroom 24/7 and just was. I didn’t do anything except listen to music. I was a lovelorn teenager who swore that the cure to heartache was through listening to the entire collections of Depeche Mode and The Cure. Later still, adult me (still prone to melancholia) gravitated towards the heartbreaking lyrics of Sarah McLachlan’s album Surfacing and, later still, the nostalgic ballads on No Doubt’s Return of Saturn album. I endured dark days sitting alone in my bedroom singing along to Good Enough and Ex-Girlfriend. Music has always been the gospel by which I live. It helps me cope with minutiae and malady.

Kindergarten

There’s a newspaper article my mom saved that features me for some reason. I keep asking her to sit with me and find it, but she doesn’t relish going through reminders of her time married to my father. The last time I accidentally uncovered it, my stomach sank to my feet like it does whenever I fly, and the plane hits a patch of turbulence. I ached for my five-year-old self who wore a smock and stood in front of an easel that was easily twice my size. At the age of five, I still wore clothes designed to fit toddlers.

My ash brown hair was long again (my best friend Nonnie, who was overzealous in playing hairdresser, had accidentally given me a crewcut not that long before) and I wore it in a disheveled ponytail held fast with rubber bands that had colored plastic baubles on either end of them. My eyes were pained, my mouth was askew, my right hand held a paintbrush tightly, and my left pointer finger pressed hard against my upper lip. I felt frustrated and hopeless. I knew exactly what I was supposed to be painting but I couldn’t do it.

I should have been carefree, but I was the farthest thing from it. I was forlorn and had heart-palpitating anxiety. I clearly remember how all the other kids in my kindergarten class were praised for how well they drew and colored within the lines. I tried to copy the kids on either side of me who took their time and colored neatly. I know that I took the same amount of time and applied the same degree of effort. At some point, however, I must’ve opted for scribbling because it didn’t matter that I had given it my all. The teacher praised the normal kids’ work; when she got to my seat, I nervously chewed the insides of my cheeks. It’s funny how typing this memory triggers the recall and I find myself unconsciously chewing on my cheeks.

Rachel, take your time and try to stay within the lines, she said. I didn’t even get, Nice try or Good effort. I was five, but I was already indirectly told that I wasn’t worthy of praise or positive attention. I readily concluded that my classmates’ work was better than mine, that they were better than me. My kindergarten classmates towered over me and were physically frightened. I was still the same size I’d been in nursery school. I was the only one who wasn’t noticeably taller.

I didn’t play much with the other kids in my class. I liked them, but they were able to play on different play structures than I was because they were taller. I couldn’t reach the first bar of the jungle gym. I was too short to climb onto the see-saw. And regardless of my lack of height, I thought that everyone else ran around and shrieked too much. I didn’t do Loud or Fast. Loud scared me and Fast wasn’t safe for me.

Every time I ran around to keep up with the bigger kids, I fell and got scraped up. I was too clumsy to go as fast as they did. I was safer doing my own thing and I preferred it that way. I was a shy, introverted kid. One day, I was on the top of a climbing structure on the school’s playground. I have a hazy memory of sitting on top of the slide. I was daydreaming like I always did. My mom called this spacing out. I was so engrossed in my own thoughts that I didn’t notice that my classmates went back inside. We must’ve been outside at the same time as the nursery schoolers because why else would my teacher not have noticed that she left me behind?

I remember another teacher called the remaining kids to line up. Somehow, I got lumped in with them. What’s weirder than my teacher not noticing I was gone was that this other teacher didn’t notice that I wasn’t supposed to be in her class. I was too stunned to say anything on the playground. I simply followed the rest of the flock inside. The other teacher