Extraordinary Isn't Always Good: A Collection of Notable Memories

By Faith Baker

Featured art: Smithsonian American Art Museum and its Renwick Gallery by Thomas Wilmer Dewing

We base the remainder of our lives on past moments. They shape us whether we like it or not, and if that’s not the scariest thing in the world, you must be living an immensely lackluster life.

I’m about to open up to you, though you hardly know me. I’m going to share the moments that have shaped me, kicked me in the face, dusted me off and picked me back up, and pushed me to where I am today. To be truthful, sometimes I forget these are mine. But if I squint hard enough, rack my brain with enough force, I can bring the memories out of suppression, bring them to life once more.

So, let’s begin.

It was a hot tub. The blue sky was brighter than my mindset, and the sun's splendor was far more inviting than anything else in my life — I'm assuming. I was three, and this is my first memory, literally. Underneath the Bay View Resort at Myrtle Beach — a place I had come to know quite well since we returned a few more times, but a sight that to this day never fails to send fluctuating chills through my spine — is a raft ride beside a series of hot tubs and pools. My mom told me frequently about Jesus, his miracles and why we were safe in his hands. I figured if Jesus could walk on water — he is just like us, isn't he, mom? — why couldn't I? I saw the small, circular hot tub, my mom not paying close attention, and I figured it was safe. I stuck my tiny foot in, fully believing in myself. As I began to stick the other in, I fell, my eyes opening to the blistering heat. I sat there, unaware of what was around me, unaware that death, a concept I had yet to be taught, was impending. It was probably only a few seconds before my mom hastily pulled me back up, but I figured I had every right to be crabby afterward, so I was. My first memory is of me almost dying, but that's nowhere nearly as screwed up as anything that comes next.

It was a cold, bare room at a mental institution; I was 13 and ready to see solely black. Despite a caring mother, a couple good friends, and winning the county tournament with my school’s tennis team, I found no pleasure in life. The only consistency was instability, and I no longer saw a point. Apparently, my mother found me, and I was taken to a mental hospital for two weeks. Besides the first couple hours after I woke up, I saw next to no one, excluding the nurse who brought me all my meals. No one visited me. I didn't have my phone with me, so it was just my messed-up thoughts and me for a while. I actually kind of enjoyed the solitude, but I also remembered at least a couple times a day: wasn't I put here to talk to someone about what happened? Whatever, I guess. They let me leave after 14 days because, apparently, I "showed progress and some type of stability." To this day, I still don't know how someone who never came around can know that. And I wish that progress and stability had come to fruition because it's seven years later, and I still don't know where to find them.

It was eighth grade. No one had noticed I was gone for that half-month. That's fine, though. I didn't care where they had been, either. When the end of the year rolled around, I decided to just focus on the future and forget everything from the last few months. At this time, I was living with my grandma because my mom couldn't stand the fact that I tried to leave her. Writing had become my coping mechanism, and I wrote and wrote some more whenever I had the time. When the high school counselor came to the middle school to help us all enroll, he asked what we wanted to do with our lives. For the first time in a while, I saw something ahead of me. I said I wanted to be an author. I became even more confident in my writing at the end of the year when my English teacher, Mrs. McCullough, whose class had been the one source of light and hope for me that year, left a card on my desk. It read — yes, this is verbatim, for you never forget the thing that made you feel something for the first time in who knows how long — "Faith, your handwriting has had an impact on me. I've never seen anything like it. I can't wait to use it as a font on Microsoft Word one day, and I can't wait to read one of your future bestsellers either. Stay in touch!" I didn't stay in touch because I'm the worst. But I'm still working on that novel, and this the first time I've admitted that.

It was a band I didn’t know I needed. That card didn't stop all the sadness flowing in my body. That would've been too easy. Entering high school didn't make it any better. I sought out relief, some sort of catharsis that could help me escape my existential dread. Finally, I found it from a YouTube recommendation. It was a band I had never heard of and a song I would come to highly depend on. When Twenty One Pilots' "Before You Start Your Day" began, I felt a sense of relatability within the dreary keys, and I felt inexplicable hope when it ended. Around two years later, on the fifth anniversary of when the album with that song came out, I convinced my mom to let me get lyrics from it embedded in my skin forever. Oh, yes, my mom had forgiven me by then. The tattoo — "the clouds above will hold you," surrounded by the piano chords that continue to instill solace in my bones — was in her handwriting, too, so she knew she would always be with me even if we were apart physically. Those words carried me through the imminent tumultuous times, and even though I don't listen to Twenty One Pilots as often anymore, I still owe everything to those two guys for ultimately saving my life.

It was me getting drunk for the first time. Within a couple years, I fortunately found a few people — or should I say teammates — whom I could rely on. Of course, they didn't even know the half of it, especially not my darkest moments, but they didn't need to. I didn't feel like worrying them, especially on this summer night when I decided it would be best to let loose and forget it all. I had never held an ounce of alcohol in my hand, let alone taste it. My three friends — Lauren, Zoë, and Bairavi — had experience, knew what they were doing, so I decided to put all the trust in the world in their hands. I probably shouldn't have. They were all belligerently drunk within an hour, and I felt absolutely nothing, just like usual. As I looked around at them having the time of their lives, I began to wonder, "Maybe life really isn't meant to be any fun at all for me. I could probably drink everything in this kitchen and not feel even the slightest buzz." So, I did. Ten minutes later, the room swirled into its own euphoric world, far away from everything I was previously feeling. I blacked out after a short while, but the little I remember was everything I needed to remind myself that I had some imminent rapture to live for. It certainly didn't feel that way when I woke up and puked on Lauren's porch four times, but I now know that drunken night propelled me to a time of moderate happiness. Lucky me.

It was my first optimistic glimpse into the future. When I walked into the journalism room, 311, for the fourth consecutive year, I had so much on my plate, and I had never felt more alive. I was in charge of a newspaper, yearbook, and a daily broadcast. I knew I was destined for journalism, and I knew as soon as the college of my dreams—Ohio University—accepted me, my life would be in motion. I wanted to be something more than the nobodies this high school typically produced. Within a month of senior year starting, I solidified my spot on the list of names people will remember. The journalism teacher wanted a memorable segment on the daily broadcast, something that would pique interest yet was still school-appropriate. I pitched the idea of an "anti-joke of the day," a joke where the punchline is that there isn't one. She had become familiar with my dry humor and didn't see a problem with it. Within a few weeks, people knew my name and recognized my dead-pan face. Most people despised the jokes, but a few told me it was the best part of their day. Those handful are the only reason I kept going with it. After a while, I started having teachers tell the jokes, which people seemed to like more. I became tired of it before the year was over, but I couldn't stop. I hated the brief school-wide fame. I hated having all eyes on me when I walked in a room. I hated people knowing my name. Yet I absolutely needed it. I loved everything else I did in that journalism department so much more, but attention and knowing something you do is recognized by others trumps all else mentally.

It was my last state tennis tournament. Even though I had utterly destroyed Lauren's porch, she didn't form a disconnect. It would've been insanely awkward if she did since we were teammates and saw each other more than both of us probably preferred, but still. You get the picture. She, Zoë, Bairavi, and I actually grew even closer over the next year, just in time for us to go to different colleges and ruin something great. I had made it to the state tournament for the third consecutive year now, and I didn't expect much to come from it. I had failed the last two times, blowing it in the semifinals my sophomore year and losing a heartbreaker my junior year. What's one more time going to hurt? I somehow blew through the quarters, but I was a game away from losing in the semis. I teared up on court, but I couldn't tell you why. I had been telling myself all year, "Finally, you won't have to run against your will anymore. You won't have to hate your life because of your coaches. It's all but over." In that moment, though, I wanted to relive it all again. I powered through and forced a third set, which I eventually won after my opponent roughed up her ankle. The final was the easiest match of the tournament. I lifted the plaque with pride, but in every single picture of me from that day, I look anything but thrilled. I exceeded my and everyone else's expectations, but it finally hit me that the healthiest part of my last four years ended, and I didn't think to appreciate it until I couldn't anymore.

It was the way music continued to make me feel OK despite everything. Freshman year of college, to my dismay, went by in a hurry. I joined the campus newspaper and many of its staffs, and by the end of the year I was hired to be its copy chief. I also met two people who have come to be the most important people in my life. The person who’s been through everything with me, though, was making up for her past mistakes. My mom bought me a ticket and a VIP pass to a concert of one of my favorite artists of all time, Jon Bellion, so we made a whole vacation out of it. When the day of the concert came, I knew it would be one of my best days yet, but I had no idea just how life-changing it would be. During the VIP session, Jon brought out one of the openers, Lawrence, an eight-piece band fronted by two irreproachable siblings. I was blown away during VIP, but it wasn't until the band played the first song of its set, "Shot," that I fell head over heels. I could hardly focus on Jon's incredible music after hearing the glorious funk blended with heartfelt lyrics that Lawrence delivered. For some reason, I forgot about Lawrence for a couple months after that night. The eight of them knocked my socks off so swiftly that I forgot to put them back on for a little while. I found them again, however, after Jon retweeted something about them being signed to his new record label. Immediately, I listened to everything the band had out, and less than a year later, I got my second tattoo in their honor. The power of music truly is a mystery.

It was what was supposed to be a relaxing weekend. When I came home from college for my cousin's 15th birthday, I didn't realize it would turn into a shit fest and, even worse, end in the majority of my family deciding to shun me. It could've been worse. I could've cared. However, I could only take so much. I spent 19 years of my life tolerating their blatant hate and keeping my mouth shut. The conversation was spurred when my aunt published a post on Facebook that was homophobic, Islamophobic, transphobic — you name it, it was probably included. This was a couple days before the party, and I was infuriated, but I didn't let it show. I didn't expect any less from her. When I found out she wasn't coming to the party because of "randomly getting sick before she left" — an excuse she used often without any real explanation to get out of things she no longer wanted to be a part of — I knew this was my time to address my problem to the family. After my cousin Camden finished opening his gifts, I subtly brought it up. I admitted how sick it made me feel to watch my family, my loved ones, not accept people who didn’t look like us. Everyone except Camden, who always keeps to himself and who I came to find out actually agreed with me, shot me down. Then I released current after current of anger and resentment for them depriving me of a set of beliefs I didn't know I could have until I stepped onto OU's campus. I said they shouldn't expect me to come back home at all this semester, and I think it was my grandma, my best friend, who took me in when my mom couldn't figure out how to love me anymore, who said she wouldn't forgive me. I said I had forgiven her hate all my life, but I guess she forced me to let it slide once again. I don't know why I decided to speak up finally, but it happened, and I can't take it back. It's not like I want to, anyway.

It was my college closing down because of coronavirus concerns. During that time, I realized just how alone I was. Every night for as long as I can remember, I've let the music decide my mood. I've let it heal me; I've let it save me. I had known that I had become dependent on it, yet I didn't realize it was my lifeline until I had no one. When you're in college, especially when you're working at a publication with many others as I have been, you become quite close with some, whether you like it or not. You have to take the music out. Sometimes, that lets you see the beauty of the world around you, but other times, you want to put the headphones back in and escape. I feel the latter more often. Even when I can't use my getaway when I'm working, I force someone else to play their music. I do my best every moment of my life to let the vulnerability of the vocals or the eerie synths or the subtle cellos or the roaring guitars or whatever I decide will help me that day fill my body to the brim with contentment. Unlike music, friends come and go like the seasons, typically. Sometimes you get lucky, but I wasn’t there just yet.

It was finally finding a pair of lifelong friends. I'm one of those people who very much believes, despite its cheesiness, that everyone who comes into your life does so for some greater purpose. Maybe it's for blessings. Maybe they'll turn your life around and remind you there's some beauty to the chaos life entails. But we forget all about those good times when the bad discloses itself, and I've let that define me. In most films, there's always that cliché pair of friends who have somehow stuck it out all those years, never leaving one another along the way. I always wanted that but never received it. I had two close friends in elementary school, but as soon as we entered middle school, we hardly saw each other and inevitably lost touch. Once I made a couple close friends in middle school, high school got the best of us. Besides my teammates and my journalistic counterparts, I had no one, at least no one who voluntary wanted to give me the time of day. I wish it would've dawned on me sooner that, just as each time I had moved up the educational ladder, I would find better people. Flash forward to the present, as I enter the newsroom every day alongside smiling faces who I'd like to believe are happy to see me. Among them are my two closest friends, Riley and Abby, who make up two of my three roommates. I've never felt so safe, so validated, with anyone else. The way they love music, the way they genuinely care about what the people around them are doing and pursuing, just the way they are is inexplicably beautiful. My biggest hope is that I don't form too much of a dependency on them like I tend to do. Every time I've told someone they're my best friend, after they promise that'll never change, it always does. Everyone always leaves. Maybe if I just write it down and not say it out loud, it'll stay that way. God, please let it stay that way.

It was coming to terms with the person I truly am. My latest notable memory is one that's both frightening and oh-so relieving. Growing up in a family that's hateful yet would never admit to it if confronted has its tribulations. That included spending the first 19 years of my life convinced I was something I'm not. Now, I can't blame this entirely on my family. I got some help from my peers, but every night when I was alone, my family is what came to mind. I remember having thoughts as early as fifth grade that the girls around me were strikingly beautiful. Every time I noticed, though, I told myself to stop it. I told myself there's no way I could let that happen. I never talked about this with anyone because who could I go to? Each time it happened, I would torture myself and suppress the thought for the moment. I'd go back to the boys. I'd think about the movies, the TV shows. It's always meant to be the boy and the girl in the end, right? I couldn't break tradition. Let's not be mistaken, either: the boys were just as cute. I loved how I loved both, but no one else did, so I figured I wasn't supposed to. I completely extinguished the idea of me loving the same gender until last year. Almost a decade passed me by before someone else reassured me it's OK to love whoever you want. When I took a women's, gender, and sexuality studies class my second semester of college, I felt liberated. I saw the torment that came with not conforming to society's standards of being straight, but more importantly, I saw what it's like to come to terms with who you are and be fine with it. I probably should've known before this class, but I never said I was bright.

Sharing this with you has shown me that most of my notable memories — all but one, actually — occurred within the last 10 years. Half of my life meant nothing to me, apparently. All of these are either incredibly depressing, or document my rise back into hopefulness before sinking right back into despair. Never is it continuous jubilation, but that would be too good, too easy. I still fucking love my life, though. I love the moments, though evanescent, when I remember the happy memories I didn't bother to mention. One of my favorite stories I've ever written, though so flawed and not notable enough of a memory to mention in full here, has one quote that I feel condenses this entire collection to one thought. Verbatim as I wrote it at age 17, it was: “I learned that somehow, even through all of life's craziness and heart-wrenching moments, a subdued wave of hope will soon appear and make everything worthwhile again.” I remember as soon I wrote that thinking the idea was pure shit. However, if you were to ask me, after all this, after completely reflecting on my entire life, how could I sum up my existence? It would probably be that. At least I would hope so, but honestly, it depends on the day.

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Faith Baker (she/her) is a junior at Ohio University studying journalism and hails from Vienna, West Virginia. She hopes one day to go into music criticism or music publicity. When she's not writing, she's lying down, headphones in, with the world turned off.