I may be a lot of things, but I'm not hiding

By LIZ MOODY

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My columns tend to inspire reactions. My life, actually, tends to inspire reactions. People argue over whether I'm promiscuous, instigative or merely crazy. I have another suggestion to offer -- perhaps I'm just honest. And maybe a little crazy, because I write down my honesty for all of you to read and judge.

Which is better, though -- trust created through deception or trust created through transparency? I asked my father this on the phone this morning.

"Would you rather trust me because you thought I was never doing drugs and bad things?" I asked, "Or would you rather trust me because you knew I was telling you that I was?"

After a long pause (because, you know, drugs and dads aren't the best combination in any light), he hesitantly spoke. "I'd rather know," he said. "In the short term, it makes me more angry, maybe, but in the long run, I think that makes me trust you more."

Every single one of my friends had a fake ID. Every single one of my friends drank before they were 21 and had sex before marriage, and more than a few people that I know have experimented -- minimally -- with marijuana.

Yet every parent I know maintains a "not me" attitude -- it's someone else's kids, always. Simply because it couldn't be theirs.

My friend Leslie was raised in a household where they not only never touch alcohol, but pills or unnatural anything of any sort are strictly forbidden. When she was 15, she drank her first cocktail. Having never come across alcohol before in any context, she had another. And another. She woke up the next morning in the bed of a boy she didn't recognize with vomit in her hair, with no one to tell except for her friends, who assured her that this was entirely normal.

Several years later, I was staying at her house while she was sick. Her parents made her chicken soup and as much tea as she could drink, but at 5 o'clock one morning, I awoke to her sweaty face above me.

"I need Tylenol, Liz," she said, holding her head in her hand. "Please, please, go get me Tylenol."

So, I snuck out her window and got into her car, in which I drove, half-asleep, to the nearest 24-hour gas station. I bought the Tylenol, then got back in the car, where I proceeded to back into a truck driving through the parking lot behind me.

"Why were you out at 5 in the morning?" asked Leslie's dad, 6-foot-5 and rather terrifying when being told that his daughter's car has been towed.

"Umm ..." I looked at my friend, who was frantically shaking her head at me. "I was ... hungry? I thought I'd ... get a snack?"

To this day, Leslie's parents have no idea that she's ever taken medicine.

She gets her birth-control pills on the sly and dabbles with using her friends' various prescription medications, often in excessive amounts that not only serve to alleviate her pain, but result in her floating around in a dazed haze of intoxication. To this day, her mother and father still hate me.

My father, on the other hand, knows every drug I've ever consumed, every misstep I've made on the path of life. He's seen me fall more times than he would probably wish to, but because he's always made himself open to me, I've always come to him when I've fallen, and he's always there to help me get back up.

Does he have to deal with more as a result of this? Of course. He looks at me differently, I'm sure, when he hears about the destruction I've done to myself. But it is because I was always able to come to him and talk to him that I no longer do the things I was doing.

So, if you'd like to believe that I'm an awful person, that's fine. I'd rather be honest and inspire reactions than hide my life. And maybe that means you'll think I'm promiscuous and crazy -- and that's OK. At least I'm giving you the opportunity to decide.

Liz Moody, a Johansen High School graduate, is a student at the University of California at Berkeley. She can be reached at lizmoody@berkeley.edu.