Nobody

Anne Lamott’s Bird by Bird is making me rethink my decision to become Nobody. Becoming Nobody was supposed to fix my suffering. It seemed like the solution, at least. Nobody needs to have good opinions. Opinions just get me into trouble.

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve realized I’ve been losing people left and right over opinions I don’t even believe in anymore. I worry about accidentally carrying someone else’s flag for another decade. So, Nobody it is. Nobody doesn’t have to explain herself. Nobody doesn’t get in trouble. Nobody stays safe.

Except… Nobody doesn’t last for long.

When a friend would call after I became Nobody, I could never really dive in with them anymore. They’d tell me about a problem—relationship drama, family tension—and Nobody would remind them of the finish line: we’re all going to die.

Usually, that was enough to snap them out of their griping. Or maybe just enough to stop them from complaining to me, Nobody.

After those phone calls, I’d feel a little high. Like I’d helped. I reminded my comrades of the spiritual hits: we’re all going to die, our thoughts create our reality, our illnesses are unresolved trauma, delays are God’s redirections, and oh—by the way—we’re God.

It felt liberating for my soul, for a while. But it never lasted.

For four years—a whole college education—I’ve consciously ignored big opinions. I’ve refocused on what matters: the dissolution of me. My body has been kept alive. It’s tried new drugs, gained and lost weight, experimented with styles. But my mind? My mind has dissolved.

I was Nobody. The perfect observer.

And it was boring.

Sure, I don’t get into fights on the internet anymore. I don’t have to defend every move I make. But boring is boring. It’s regulating, sure. It’s good for the nervous system. But boring is still boring.

I’ve become so accepting of every reality, every possibility, every type of person. I see why bad things happen, why painful institutions exist, why morally bankrupt corporations succeed. I see the theater of it all.

It’s hard to get me to buy into anything. In a way, I’ve reached nirvana. And nirvana, it turns out, is boring.

How can someone be authentic without opinions? I didn’t know, but I was going to find out.

So I spent a few years doing odd jobs, dating odd men, making odd friends. My streak of normal society ended after 22 years of being the great student, the overachieving assistant, the devoted-just-to-be-devoted girlfriend. By 25, nothing was worth the internal hustle anymore.

Let me break from the timeline to say: this is a good thing.

Being a great student of grade school, high school, and university is not for the new world. Sure, it had its moments. Being Academic Decathlon team captain was a flex at the time. But I haven’t seen the ROI on that yet.

Being a good student of a cool trade? Now that’s something. Ceramics. Drawing. Painting. Horseback riding. Guitar. Way cooler than knowing what a parabola is.

(Kidding. Math is probably closer to God than anything else. I’ll shut up about it moving forward.)

The goal for today is just to write. If I end up sharing this, the goal is to let you know: I’m re-crafting my voice. All of them.

My written voice. My spoken voice. My singing voice. My friend voice, my girlfriend voice, my stranger voice. My comic voice, my character voice, my prayer voice.

It’s a big job for the Throat Chakra, but that’s what it does.