That’s Just Who You Were
I may not know who I am anymore but I do know who I’m not and that’s good enough for now. I used to be shitty. Rude. Selfish. Pompous. I thought these traits would follow me to the grave.
It’s easy to wear shittiness as a badge of honor — to comprise an entire personality from your triggers, pet peeves, deal breakers. Assholes operate in absolutes; this or god-for-fucking-bid that. It’s infinitely easier to draw a line in the sand than to share the beach.
When people validate you for this shittiness, it becomes all the more inextricable from your existence. It’s why comedians rarely grow. Why should they? Being shitty pays the bills. You convince yourself you’re a cultural critic — righteously indignant, justifiably judgmental. In practice, however, you’re just cruel.
At my shittiest, the closest I could offer as an apology whenever I hurt someone’s feelings, which was often, was the line “I’m sorry I’m like this” — the implication being I was completely devoid of agency, suffering under the control of an immobile, sinister force and that was what made me behave atrociously. It’s not me making you cry, it’s the trauma!
Growing up, positivity was the exception and not the rule in my household. Virtually every conversation was used as an opportunity to kvetch about the indignities of the work day or the unmitigated gall of some cocksucker who (always unprovoked) “fucked with” my father. The world, it seemed, was always at war with the Koesters.
A therapist once told me my virulent negativity was a self defense mechanism — I viewed every stimulus, both positive and negative, as a threat, a byproduct of the emotional development that ceased when my sister died. I was a perpetual adolescent, suspicious of everyone and everything in my orbit. This analysis made sense. Which is why I stopped going to her. I wasn’t ready to make sense yet. I was still in love with the all-access pass to callousness that is being “damaged.” Not only that, it was all I knew.
Familiarity, though, can easily breed resentment. I used to resent every moment I was conscious — I didn’t ask to be born, I asked for a side of Ranch dressing. No one deserved to exist because I didn’t want to. All this being said, I was comfortable in my resentments. Cozy, even. Because considering yourself powerless really takes a lot of the pressure off.
It’s weird to think of the period in which I was in the most amount of emotional and physical pain as the easiest, but it was. It’s a facile way to exist, always passing the buck. But when I finally realized I no longer actually wanted to kill myself, I also realized I no longer wanted to be myself. I was tired of being paralyzed. I wanted to, y’know, do something with, do something about, my ingrained misery. I wanted to help.
Change didn’t happen overnight, of course, nor did it even happen in the first couple years after I decided to stop milking my past for an excuse to spiral. It came in drips, not spurts.
When I was young, pot was something I thought was only consumed by people who liked inexcusable music. Northern Central California is basically Nor Cal — Santa Cruz peace frog hacky sack “we are all one” shit. I resented pot smokers and their seemingly effortless ability to experience joy. I also thought joy was for the mindless. I used to think a lot of stupid things.
I used to think podcasts were for fucking losers but if I had never started one I would have never heard Howard say “When I listen to Public Enemy, I’m Chuck D. and my stepmom is the Federal Government” while searching for a weed pipe in his jacket as we stood on the Main Street of an abandoned gold mining town, a line I’ve thought about every subsequent day thereafter. Once you get Howard high you have a joke writing machine; the only thing keeping you from the gold is your ability to take dictation and tread water. Arguing with Howard has become one of my greatest joys, as he is immutably frustrating. Sometimes I feel as though I’m his parent; sometimes I feel as though I’m his partner. The arguments I had with my ex husband, however, were less fruitful. Arguing with someone you’re romantically entangled to is so hack, anyway.
Sometimes I’ll sit and realize how much some insane philosophy he has makes sense and I’ll think shit, am I like him? The answer is yes. Yes, I am, which is why the universe brought us together. And by being brought together, someone who listens to our podcast sent me a letter this week to say that, through sharing my experiences with depression and anxiety, I helped save their life. Before I stopped hating myself, it never really ever occurred to me to be of service to anyone. But I used to think a lot of stupid things. Primarily about the hostility of the universe. The universe was never really that hostile, though. I was.