Semi-Well-Adjusted Despite Literally Everything

by Alyson Stoner

So I learned my first party trick: falling asleep anywhere for self-preservation.

I overheard Mom and Dad arguing one night that I was an “accident” and that I wasn’t part of the original plan. If that were true, I wanted to do whatever I possibly could to prove they wouldn’t regret their mistake. I’ll be the best mistake ever.

I was about to find somewhere I could be a human-in-progress and let myself experience emotions. The problem was, that meant I suddenly felt everything.

From the intel I’d gathered, following God was not only a noble pursuit; the journey also came with a perfect moral compass and human support system, not to mention an eternity in heaven.

My heart swelled. In a split second, I gained a personal relationship with a Savior. Just when I needed family the most, I gained a Father and Provider, not to mention a map for my life.

Remember what Pastor Mel said: “If you dress like a flesh buffet, don’t be surprised when you’re treated like a piece of meat.” Modest is hottest.

From the beginning of my career, I tried not to take “almosts” and industry politics personally. But who else could I blame for repeatedly failing to secure the lead when the common denominator was me?

As children, we thought we were meeting with trusted adults who cared about us on a personal level. In reality, they dangled dreams in front of us like a hypnotist with a pocket watch, raptly watching us duke it out for roles while having a completely separate corporate agenda driving decisions.

My fragile teen self-worth was being held together by staples. Anger tried taking root, but I jerked it out. There wasn’t any room for negativity, I decided—not for a mature industry professional, and not for a holy Christian.

“Dearest Alyson Stoner, great wealth brings the obligation to give to those less fortunate. For you, it’s a small inconvenience. For our children, it’s life and death.” Their logic was undebatable. How can we turn away underserved children?

“It’s all by his grace,” I replied in fluent Christianese.

It became clear that the only way to be on my best behavior at all times was to completely outsmart growing up.

It was tantalizing to fast-track maturity. The general guideline was simple: If any adult referred to something as “foolish” or “youthful,” then I bypassed the behavior.

What I miscalculated about leaping past mistakes to enlightenment was that disowning messy parts of myself didn’t mean they didn’t exist, nor had I “fixed” them. Avoiding uncomfortable thoughts and volatile feelings did not make them, or the deeper wounds accompanying them, disappear. They were just banished out of my direct awareness, lying dormant in the shadows. And I had a life’s worth of them festering.

During outings with my church community, believers would comment that I had the “spiritual gift of discernment” because I near-psychically predicted others’ actions and motives. Or it’s hypervigilance. Discernment sounded much holier.

Other voices co-conspired: The Faithful Servant assured me that clean eating was a way to be a holy temple for God. The Fitness Fanatic added that exercise was a healthier outlet than alcohol and partying.

My body was nothing more than an object to fix and a project to complete.

I felt a simultaneous rush of satisfaction that I was skinny enough for somebody to finally take a second look, but I was also offended that my weight hindered my chance to book a job. Have I gone too far?

My toxically positive mind refused to accept that someone might be knowingly disrespectful.

Admittedly, I didn’t have the skills or courage to address anything directly. It was easier to silence my truth than stand up for myself and potentially cause a problem.

Demi wasn’t even given a realistic chance to heal before she was expected to exploit her recovery and act as if she’d completely overcome complex struggles.

“Tell me about some things that bring you happiness. Is that how you feel when you’re performing?” “Happiness is a fleeting emotion. I value purpose, which comes from God.”

My lips quivered. I couldn’t put into words the gift that Debby offered me by seeing me as a human. She gave me permission to feel.

Without my eating disorder behaviors, there was nothing to numb the oncoming stampede of thoughts and feelings. I had no idea how to cope.

“Alexithymia is the inability to identify, feel, and express your emotions,” he simplified.

“Humans are fascinating!” I said, intellectually riveted but completely detached from my body. I could think about hard topics all day long without ever feeling their full emotional impact.

“That’s all right. Let’s zoom out a little: When you picture your life, what do you want?” What do I want? Isn’t it about what God wants? Or what my fans and reps need from me?

I’d never asked myself what I wanted, and I felt selfish for even saying those words. But the way he presented it made it seem like there were important insights to discover, that my well-being and life mission didn’t have to be mutually exclusive.

I pulled out the sleeper to rest on an actual mattress, and I felt a tiny bit closer to treating myself like a real human.

If God didn’t make mistakes, my nemesis wasn’t my appearance: the culprit was societal standards.

Is every modification from our plainest state considered vanity? Or could it be self-respect or personal expression?

“Alyson,” came a gravelly voice with a Midwestern accent via Skype, “in order to understand scripture, we have to recognize that what we think is true has been saturated in layers of culture, generational bias, historical movements, institutional dogma, power systems, flawed translations, and the state of our own consciousness.

I felt increasingly out of place at church. Meanwhile, I met several queer people who were the most loving examples of being a disciple of Jesus I’d ever encountered.

Throughout my deconstruction, I never intended to leave Christianity. But over time, I collected too many transformative spiritual and nonreligious experiences that fell outside its scope. Like outgrowing a favorite sweater, the contemporary cultural definition of “Christian” was simply too tight.

While it put the onus on me, I knew I could rely on my workaholism far more than someone else following through.

Even in my race to succeed, I’d been trying to make up for lost time, based on a path that was never mine.

Even though starting over would be an all-consuming slog, I trusted that the liberation on the other side would be worth it.

Seven weeks of playful teasing, three months of kinetic conversation, and half a year of the gayest dates ever—carpentry class, visiting an animal sanctuary, and social justice mutual aid meetups—I’d met my match.

I looked at them under the faint glow of the stars, seeing not only a romantic partner but a collaborator in life. We nuzzled into each other, a silent promise of care passing between us.

“I need some help teasing apart some jumbled thoughts,” I said

Besides rehab, which required deep focus on recovery, I’d never taken a break from work. There hadn’t been a period of empty time to sit with myself and live into these deeper learnings.

Let this moment be what it will be. Try to stay in your body.

I smiled, knowing I’d found my flock of people who’d celebrate me relaxing just as much, if not more, than performing onstage.

Our relationship was limited, but it didn’t stop me from wishing on a millionth star for the day that we might rebuild our bond.

I didn’t hear the chatter of inner voices who typically jockeyed for position in my psyche after a huge event. Instead of being pulled in different directions by their wants and needs, it was as if they’d all come to realize it was okay to take a break from kicking and screaming. My own voice was the loudest, most persuasive voice in my head. And I loved the sound of it.

But even if they don’t understand the ramifications of the recordings, children do internalize the role of the camera.

These days, my most tantalizing adventure is the pursuit of normalcy. Noticing the extraordinary in the ordinary. Savoring simplicity. Enjoying moments of anonymity. Creating art beyond industry. Participating in collective progress. Freestyling the days as they come versus following a script. And maybe, just maybe, taking an actual break!

Perhaps I have more music to share or advocacy to spearhead on a public stage, but I’d like to believe it’s equally okay if my name is never in lights again, and I’m just an average human trying to love my neighbors and care for the planet we call home.