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

A recovering 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 anxious attachment style, as one can be a former sex offender as much as one can be a former bike rider.

However, I am comfortable hearing out a recovering junkie. They stayed on the ride until they were so sick they infected everyone in their sphere, but then somehow found the strength to confront the reflection in the mirror, see the wreckage staring back at them, and hop off to place their feet upon steady ground.

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 his own story, 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 praise, 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 that 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 and hits every pothole of outside judgment on the way to Nowhere Authentic. If I remain chill and grounded even around other people, then This Guy is here and doing her thing without giving a damn.

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 wish I were greening out and having 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 felt like an imposter in the room. The only logical choice was 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 think about yourself more. I grabbed the bong from the black haired, nose-pierced girl next to me like it was my destiny.

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 if anyone had ever shit their pants, and two brave souls ponied up their tales of woe. I desperately wanted to chime in about that time in the woods at track practice in middle school, but all I managed a few caveman-esque grunts as 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 float-y.” 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 scared shitless by the illiterate scooter people in the Pixar movie WALL-E.

As That Guy, I hardly knew myself. That Guy walked around in circles with shame stuck like gum on the bottom of her shoe.

Carr brings up the sobering notion that once an addict’s antics come to a halt and they’re forced to realize the extent of destruction their drug use has caused, the only thing that can numb the pain is indulging further in the addiction itself.

In an addict’s mind, the line between This Guy and That Guy is distinct. You are either sober, or you aren’t.

As for my version of This Guy and That Guy, the distinction is blurry, and the two sides often eclipse each other.

That Guy doesn’t care about the shame This Guy will have to shovel out of your head come morning. Just roll those wretched dice once more, for old time’s sake.

That Guy tries to convince you, I can handle it, it’s under control, until the masquerade inevitably comes to a halt. It’s in the stillness where you decide which way to turn.

The day I dropped out of college to take a mental health leave was a turning point in That Guy’s life. Something had to change.

I got a job at the Domino’s Pizza near my house, and 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 quit saying his butt-ugly pizzas were of my making.

I was nineteen years old and it felt like rock bottom; I didn’t care what anyone thought of me anymore.

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

I took a three-year break from smoking weed as I discovered, and then started to embrace a new way of being as This Guy. I learned what boundaries were, made healthier friendships, and stopped contorting myself into unrecognizable shapes to fit in.

Recently, I decided to give smoking weed 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 not stupid 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, said 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.

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

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. For 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 truth 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.”)

It’s 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.

Every day, I wake up in hopes of another day being This Guy, the version of me who writes to revel in the ability to express my thoughts and share them with others,, and 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, the idea that both That Guy and This Guy make up who I am has been rolling around in my mind, and I’m slowly becoming more comfortable with that sentiment.

Carr closes out The Night of the Gun by saying That Guy will always be a part of you. I’ve come to see That Guy’s just trying to help me find a way 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.

If it comes down to being This Guy or That Guy? I’d rather be This Guy, but I’m glad This Guy has That Guy to remind me I’m still terrified of WALL-E.

– Claire McFadden