Destiny Is a Multiple-Choice Exam

I have a friend who works for an insurance company, just like her mom did for over 35 years. Surely, overhearing all those conference calls must have influenced her. One of my best friends is going to medical school. She will deny it in an attempt to see herself as independent, but it is because she wants to be like her parents, who are both doctors. My other friend is majoring in pre-law; it is no surprise that she grew up watching her father defend clients in courts. Children often follow the paths of their parents. There is an intangible level of influence and shaping that happens from the environments we are in.

My father sold cocaine out of the local town bar he owned while evading taxes for a living.

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I grew up as a kind child who always spoke respectfully to adults and whose teachers saw me as responsible enough to deliver the attendance sheet to the office some mornings in elementary school. I was a good kid, who worked hard in school and played nicely with others. I am also a demon who was easily enraged, who wanted to solve problems with fists, who started drinking only a couple of years after reaching the benchmark of double-digit ages.

I grew up mainly in my mother’s house, who is, by all accounts, the average suburban middle-class mother. I spent some time at my dad’s house, and it shows. I am not sure where I stand on the nature versus nurture argument. Maybe my father’s genetics created this conflicted monster, or maybe it was my court-scheduled visitation that cultivated delinquent urges. I can’t say for sure where it comes from, but my incessant frustration as I suppress one of my identities is palpable.

When I was about nine years old, I was told that alcoholism is genetic-- I’m fucked.

What age does alcoholism start? Surely, a desire to deal drugs and hang around seedy bars must be genetic, too. When do I start carrying my weapon for protection?

I grew up asking myself when the bad side would set in. I thought about how disappointed my mother would be to see me follow my father’s path, instead of hers, despite her tireless efforts to protect me from his influence.

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I was ready to branch out and meet new people after being tired of the same old judgmental faces in middle school. I was 13 and ready for something new, and I immediately found a group of upperclassmen that was uniquely fun. Each of them came with their own issues of problematic families, struggles to graduate school, or trauma from sexual assault. Regardless, I enjoyed their care-free spontaneity that let me experience their impulsive joy. One night, I came home around three in the morning with a bloody gash on my leg. I tried to hide it from my mom, but she saw the stained paper towels in the trash.

“Megan, what is wrong? Why are these paper towels covered in blood?” she asked with aggression and worry.

After stopping by to pick up the shrooms my friend Stef was buying, we decided to go TP a house. The cops pulled up, so I ran into the woods. I slipped on a muddy patch and my leg got cut. But it’s fine because the cops didn’t catch me.

“We were playing basketball yesterday and I got fouled and fell so I cut my knee,” I said, a little too quickly. I could not bear to see the mournful look on my mother’s face if she knew the types of activities I considered fun. I was not ready to host the funeral for the successful child she tried so hard to raise.

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My knee healed and I continued to act recklessly with friends during my first year or two of high school. After this, my older friends graduated high school. This left me more time to spend with other people, mostly my high school soccer teammates, who valued good grades, loyalty, and liked to watch movies on the weekends. In an attempt to fit in, I bought fuzzy flannel pajama pants to watch movies at their houses. I started to fall in love with the comfort of the cotton pants on Friday nights. I traded in the minty flavor of Fireball Cinnamon Whiskey for Junior Mints, and the pungent smell of pot for a lavender diffuser.

Moving forward, teachers began to see me as a hardworking athlete and not a careless kid, wasting intelligence and athleticism. At times, this identity felt stable. Other times, I craved the exhilarating experiences of my early high school days.

Ultimately, I began to root my identity more deeply in wholesome behavior, rather than recklessness. This became a constant for me until graduating high school. It remains a piece of my identity, with only a few interruptions during moments of stress and change. These moments have become shorter and less frequent as I convince myself of my identity.

The last time I had the urge to drink heavily to tolerate the stressors of life was yesterday. The last time I drank heavily to tolerate the stressors of life was four years ago. My interest in becoming the shady character perched on the local bar stool with an oversized black backpack filled with various illegal substances has subsided. My need to solve problems with violence is usually nothing more than a fleeting thought.

I do not act the way I once did. I do not partake in the activities I once pictured myself destined to do. I am 23 years old. I earned a scholarship to play college soccer and I am graduating with a bachelor’s and master’s degree in criminal justice. With my degree, I will soon prevent crime, I will rehabilitate individuals from their poor choices, I will guide youths who feel their family has set them up for failure.

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My experiences are not unique. Every day there is a child struggling to suppress their conflicting identities. I’ve learned it is possible. While nature and nurture shape us, they leave us with options. No one is helpless in the path of their lives. Each day we must choose to be the person we want. We are so much more than a product of our genetics and environment. We have the agency to choose our own outcomes—destiny is a multiple-choice exam.

The author is a fifth-year student at Northeastern University soon to graduate with her Bachelor’s and Master’s degree. She was a varsity athlete at Northeastern and is looking to continue her engagement with athletics after graduation.

Read more from our Writing to Heal: College Student Stories series.