TO BE THIS GUY OR THAT GUY

By Claire McFadden

A crack addict spoke, and I listened in close. 

For the record, I’m not comfortable listening to the philosophies of any schmuck off the street. I wouldn’t grab coffee with a former sex offender to discuss the trials and tribulations of my childhood, as one can be a former sex offender as much as one can be a former bike rider. Also they’d be way too into talking about me as a child.

However, I am cool with listening to a recovering junkie. I want to hear the secrets of those who found the strength to confront the reflection in the mirror, see the wreckage staring back at them, and call bullshit. 

In his autobiography The Night of the Gun, journalist and retired crack user David Carr guides the reader on a meandering path of his nefarious past through a series of interviews with his old friends and acquaintances. Carr took a journalistic approach to researching his own past, as a crack addict hasn’t the sharpest recall. 

Carr’s memories are beyond recognition; so much so that Carr writes of his younger self as if he were a different person altogether. Throughout the story, Carr refers to his former crack-seeking self as “That Guy” and his 20-year-sober-present-day self as “This Guy.” 

While most of us will never smoke crack, all humans have their own version of “That Guy” and “This Guy” of themselves in their heads. The ego covets identity to maintain a tangible sense of self-importance, but even more so, the brain works to protect our ego from the ugliness of past truths. Carr inspired me to reflect upon my own. 

For me, This Guy and That Guy are distinguished by where I get my validation fix from. That Guy looks outward to the male gaze and social reassurance, and This Guy reaches inward toward self-acceptance. 

This split is a fairly recent development; I didn’t become acquainted with This Guy until my 20s. It took me two decades to notice when That Guy seeks her sense of self-worth without, it leaves her with just that– without a sense of self-worth. 

The most telling sign of whether I’m leaning into This Guy or That Guy? Smoking weed; it revealeth all.

My brain’s reaction to THC reflects the recent orientation of my thoughts. If I tweak and go nonverbal, then That Guy’s taken the wheel to hit every pothole of outside judgment. If I remain chill and grounded even around other people, then This Guy is here and calmly doing her thing. 

Early in my college career I would smoke weed to fit in, which from the jump is a terribly insecure state of mind to get high in. No one has ever said, “wow I could really go for a panic attack right now,” which is how a high feels to me when I smoke around people I’m even slightly uncomfortable with.

During the first week of my freshman year, I walked down the dormitory hallway to brush my teeth, and that’s how I met my now good friend Kat. 

“Hey!” Kat stood at the foot of her doorway, and stopped me as I walked past. “I LOVE your anklet.” 

Since it was a college scene, this script inevitably led to me sitting on the floor atop a fuzzy hot pink pillow in a six-person bong circle. 

I was experienced enough at this point to know it was an ill-fated decision to partake in a few bong rips with strangers, but That Guy made me feel like an imposter in the room. That Guy pressured me to smoke in order to gain their approval, and therefore earn the right to be there at all.

Looking back, I’m sure they simply would’ve been happy to have more bud split between the five of them. When I shared this story with Kat, she agreed.)

Turns out, not thinking much of yourself results in the paradoxical effect of making you self absorbed. I grabbed the bong from the black haired, nose-pierced girl next to me like it was a flotation device amidst the raucous waves of my thoughts.

Within 15 seconds, I went mute. Even when I’m sober I don’t talk much in a group, but being high made me suffocatingly aware of how I was sitting there staring wide-eyed and open-mouthed at the rest of the circle. 

One guy asked the group if anyone had ever blacked out before, and I desperately wanted to tell of the time I left a party for an hour to poke at a parakeet’s cage. All I managed was a few caveman-esque grunts. The fear of saying the wrong thing stuck in the back of my throat like a shame-entangled hairball.

Kat kept poking the guy next to her until they laughed so hard tears fell from their red-streaked eyes. The girl next to me smiled with her eyes closed and kept saying, “I’m so fine.” The lively conversation wrapped around the room like the fairy lights hung across Kat’s dorm walls, and the shared stories started to pile until they nearly reached the ceiling. 

At some point in space and time, someone suggested we all watch a movie. 

I didn’t last 15 minutes after the opening credits. 

“Nice to meet you guys, I gotta go to bed,” I mumbled, not mentioning that I was in fact an imposter who didn’t like to smoke weed with people she just met, and was rather frightened by the Pixar movie WALL-E.

As That Guy, I walked around in circles with shame stuck on the bottom of my shoe. 

While exploring the year he decided to go to rehab to get clean for his new born daughters, Carr brings up the sobering notion that once an addict’s antics come to a halt they’re forced to realize the extent of destruction their drug use has caused. Ironically, the only thing that can numb the pain is indulging further in the addiction itself. 

That Guy tries to convince you I can handle it, I don’t need to change, until the masquerade inevitably comes to a halt. It’s in the stillness where you decide which way to turn.

In an addict’s mind, the line between This Guy and That Guy is distinct. Sober or using, past or present. As for my version of This Guy and That Guy, the distinction is blurry, and the two versions often eclipse each other. 

The front I put on as That Guy took a toll; by the time I was eighteen I was so depressed I couldn’t find a reason to get out of bed for days at a time. 

I dropped out of college to take a mental health leave, and marked a turning point in That Guy’s life. I couldn’t take care of myself, and I needed to change.

I got a job at the Domino’s Pizza near my house. You can’t work at Dominos for long and be a doormat. So, I learned to speak up, and tell the 35-year-old store bully Brett to shut the fuck up and pick the wedgie out of his pants. 

I was eighteen years old and saw no path forward; I didn’t care what anyone thought of me anymore. 

And that’s when I started to find This Guy. 

I started with the basics. I learned to take care of myself physically and mentally. Once I stabilized my internal state, I ventured outward. I learned what boundaries were, made healthier friendships, and stopped contorting myself into unrecognizable shapes to fit in. 

I called bullshit on That Guy six years ago. Recently, I decided to give smoking weed socially another try with some friends outside a club. The high hit me as we walked through the door, and a guy walked right up to me. 

Oh no,  That Guy’s voice whispered in my head. You’re high, and he’s about to say words to you, and you’ll have to formulate something to communicate back.

“Are you a wizard?” He asked me. 

Ah, This Guy took the wheel driving my thoughts, and I relaxed. Dumb question deserves dumber answer. 

“MUGGLE!” I screamed over the music, waving my hands back and forth in a “no way” motion. 

“What?” he said. 

“MUGGLE!” 

“What?!”

MUG—GLE!” I gave a nod as if to say, and of this I’m certain. 

He turned to my friend Alyssa to say something I couldn’t hear, and walked away.

“That guy just asked me if you spoke English,” Alyssa raised her eyebrows at me.

“He asked if I was a wizard,” I replied as I made steady eye contact with him across the room. 

“He said he was asking if you were wasian, like a white-asian.”

“OHHHHHHH!” I broke down laughing. 

That Guy would’ve been mortified I’d responded something so outrageous, but This Guy was delighted. 

And that’s the moment I realized This Guy was who I wanted to be.

As I enter my mid-twenties, I toggle between This Guy and That Guy. It hurts to swallow the mistakes I’ve made as That Guy. In hopes of outside validation, I’ve done little bitch shit. I’ve shrunk myself to make others feel better about themselves. I’ve lied through clenched teeth, choking down my opinion to get along. I’ve chased guys I didn’t even like that much, simply because the way they treated me made me question my worth. (Including a guy who always used the word “cruisin’” instead of “driving”. Doesn’t sound that bad, but imagine a guy saying he was “cruising to go visit his grandma in the hospital.”)

Living life as That Guy is a wretched game; there’s no winning. I’m still training my brain to unlearn the societally ingrained message that validation from others will color in the blank space between the lines of my true self. 

In the closing chapter of his memoir Carr says, “I’ve achieved a measure of integration, not just between This Guy and That Guy, but between past and present.” 

Every day, I wake up in hopes of another day being This Guy, the version of me who seeks connection with rather than attention from others. 

In a perfect world, I’d walk through the world as This Guy all the time. However, I’m slowly becoming more comfortable with sharing my space with That Guy. She means well, and just wants to belong. In moderate doses, seeking outside validation isn’t a bad thing. If no one cared what anyone else thought at all, we wouldn’t have the inclination to connect with others, and there’s no fun in that.

So to be This Guy or That Guy? I’d say, hold space for This Guy and That Guy. Unless you’re smoking crack.

Inspired by “The Night of the Gun” by David Carr