I’d like to start this long overdue posticle by issuing a public apology to my dear friend and partner in home-rentership, Anna. For reasons we will get to downscreen – in what you can assume will be an outlandishly verbose and nonsensical tour of my psyche – I had a long-distance meltdown aimed solely at my angelic roommate, who happened to be caring for my 90 lb. bear-dog at the time. I’ll spare you the gory details, but you can assume Hudson was being coddled beyond belief, likely happier than if I were home. In my attempt to micromanage from afar (I felt I wasn’t kept abreast of every avenue-adjacent dump whilst on a brewery tour upstate) I turned into a textbook Brynnwreck. There were double, quadruple, and eleventypoople texts and calls from yours truly. Anna, because she isn’t quite the demon I am, acted like an adult and hopefully reveled in the fact that I’d spend the rest of the weekend horrified by my behavior. Which I did. And still am.
Recently, I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about behavior. One wouldn’t know it given I can’t seem to act in accordance with the laws of social normalcy, but alas, I have. What causes certain reactions in some and not others? How much of our day-to-day behavior is a choice and how much is just who we are? Things like the decisions we make (both big and small), good and bad habits, and affability seem to fall in the controllable category. It appears we are the arbiters of our own doom or success in how we negotiate social interactions, exist in society, and navigate the world. But there’s another side to this story. We are also living, breathing products of our environment, victims of genetic predisposition in terms of demeanor and temperament, and to be honest, most of us have been through some shit. So, if we play the spectrum card, when does choice trump the laws of nature?
Most people at some point in time maintain they are victims of the universe’s whims and traps, woeful bystanders to the tragedies and trials of life. Lookin’ at you Brynnwreck from 2017 and 2018. But, in my somewhat recent and definitely annoying attempt to pen my own script this year, I jumped off the sidelines. From the outside and perhaps in reality I’m still truckin’ along like I was – but in my mind just some good, old-fashioned acknowledgement that life is good and not worth the wallow is enough to put some pep in my step (that and about 384983 coffees). Then there are those people, like Anna, that sing as they leave the house, calling back to me as I race around the apt, late. It’s always, “have a great day!” from that little ray of sunshine, typically after she’s crushed a morning run, done laundry, and made herself look like a real human (note: I often leave for work grumbling like the trash panda I am, in my gremlin gear decorated with Hudson hair – tbh, this morning was an epic gremlin grumbler).
Part of the impetus behind my recent rummaging around the rabbit hole of psychology and behavior is a deeply personal one. I’ve found part of my inner circle dealing with these questions on a clinical scale. I’ve been thinking a lot about people who are silently suffering, those out there that truly don’t get to choose to be happy or whether or not to grumble their way to the subway. Never before have I really contemplated how lucky the majority of people are, myself included, as we bob in the wake of life’s highs and lows. There are many people fighting invisible demons and battles just to get through the day – people that find themselves churning in a riptide of their own making, unable to control the only thing that we often use to justify putting one foot in front of the other, the mind.
This post was supposed to be about what an asshole I am for constantly using an angsty offense, sarcasm, and groveling to cycle through my social interactions. I wanted to share nuggets I’ve learned in my several weeks of low-level psychology research and brief discussions with friends on the topic. “Do the opposite of what you want to do.” “Breathe.” “Meditate.” “Be nice.” The last being my personal favorite, and honestly, something that I need to keep front and center in my extremely fickle and self-serving mind. Basically, what I need to do when I find myself descending into darkness a la beer-tour roommate beration (definitely should be a word), is shut the F up.
As I continue this post and start to think about finding a point (I promise I’ll dig one up here somehow), I’m brought back to times during the day or in the week that I felt I wasn’t a victim, moments I didn’t wallow, and those instances when I chose to be the best version of myself, however genetically predisposed I am to being a grouchy gremlin with no filter. I keep going back to acts of goodwill, as horrendously lame as it sounds. I mentioned a few posts ago I picked up someone’s metro card that fell from their pocket and upon reuniting it with it’s owner, felt like Captain Marvel. Honestly, that’s the feeling that makes my heart sing. I know, way to be, Brynn.
But in all seriousness, doing the hard thing, taking a chance, lending yourself to someone else is what it’s all about. Recently I’ve tried to be better, be there, and do more (sorry, again, Anna). A difficult call to a youngster going through a horrible illness just to remind them that Hocus Pocus can always be in season, because “dead man’s toe!” Telling someone they deserve everything they want in life even if it means losing them and supporting them despite the looming heartache you can see ahead. Listening to a friend that really is going through hell, not trying to compare it to the hell you’ve been through, but feeling the cold floor they find themselves on, and doing your best to warm them in the darkness. I don’t do it enough. I certainly don’t find the time to cherish the ones I love most in this way, so my very delayed New Year’s resolution is to try. If you’re reading this and rolling your eyes because I’ve been a terrible friend, or bad listener, or a difficult daughter this year (or every year), I’m sorry and I’m a comin’ for ya.
“Have a great day!”
The Dog Hair Diaries 