"It Was Fun at First"

When I was little, like most kids, I made decisions based on whatever felt good in the moment. No concern for consequences, or the future; toeing the line between bravery and stupidity. I still sometimes make decisions that way, with a childish impulsivity. If something smells good, or is sparkly, or is so weird I can't stop looking at it, then I buy it. Even if I only have $16 to my name, and it cost $15, I buy it. I have to. If I walk through the breakroom at work, and there’s a chocolate cake on the counter, my diabetes becomes irrelevant. That cake is going in my mouth, I’ll worry about blood sugar when I’m dead. I have to. I find it really hard to avoid making dirty jokes when given the opportunity, regardless of who I’m speaking to. Sometimes the setup for innuendo is too delicious to turn down, so I say whatever filth is on my mind. I have to. I don't know why. Some might attribute it to my ADD. Some may link it to a deep seeded psychological imbalance. I may never know, and frankly I don't really care.  For the most part, those decisions don't make a lot of waves. But when I was a kid, the choices I made were riskier and dumber.

Once, we were at a barbecue, or some party at a friend of my mother and stepfather's. For whatever reason, I started running around with my eyes closed. Full speed, wild, into complete darkness. I imagine the exhilaration I must have felt, adrenaline blasting through my tiny veins. No idea what was infront of me, but charging fearlessly forward. Wind blowing my curly bangs off my forehead. Drunk with bliss and freedom. With no limits, that I could see anyway, I could run as fast as I wanted. I could do anything! Nothing could stop me. I was born to run. And then...BAM.

Now, it wasn’t these people’s fault. Afterall, how would they know a crazy little girl was going to run around with her eyes closed? Why would anyone with a functioning brain do that? In their yard, they had a wooden shed. And I, with all the force that my small body could muster, hit it face first. I laid on the ground and opened my eyes. The wind had been knocked out of me. I couldn’t breathe. The sharp end to my joy ride tasted just as bitter as the blood in my mouth. When I stopped crying, I told my mother, “It was fun at first.”

On that day, a pessimist was born.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t the first time I’d experienced hurt and shame in my short life. It’s the first memory I have of being physically (and literally) blindsided. I learned something very important when I was child. A very grim lesson, too grown up for me to handle: life is scary and disappointing. Fast forward two years and 2,000 miles west of the wooden shed, to a screaming 8-year-old, me, running away from my family at Disneyland. What hellish terror was I running from? The Disneyland Railroad. Yes, the train that runs 15 miles an hour around the perimeter of the park. Why was I afraid? Because there was another train-themed ride in the park, a scary rollercoaster called Big Thunder Mountain Railroad. I was convinced my family was tricking me into riding the scary rollercoaster. My ability to trust anyone had been lost already, and I knew for a FACT that life was scary and disappointing. So why would this seemingly non-threatening train be any different?

That remained my mentality throughout adolescence and into adulthood. I would go through occasional seasons of optimism, but pessimism would always prevail. It’s like my pessimism has been keeping my optimism hostage. Or my hope and fear are in an unhealthy codependent relationship.

Hope: “We should at least try! Maybe something good might happen!”

Fear: “You shut your damn mouth, Hope. Remember the wooden shed?”

Hope: *sighs heavily* “Yeah, okay.”

(If anyone is curious, I imagine Fear is some gruff old redneck in overalls with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, holding a rifle at all times. Hope is his starry eyed daughter who just wants to get out and see the Big City.)

Any good feeling I have is accompanied by panic, because I’m just waiting for something to go wrong. As I’ve continued to live and the disappointment has piled on, it’s gotten to the point where I can hardly enjoy anything anymore. And it makes no sense.

I’m going to switch narratives for a minute and address myself directly here (because my sanity is no longer in tact):

Imagine going to see a movie, and deciding before it even starts that one of the characters is going to die. Now that’s all you can think about the entire movie. Every scene, you try to figure out which character is going to die, and how. You miss the storyline, you miss dialogue. You miss the beautiful cinematography. You miss everything. And for what? Because you were certain someone was going to die. After Bambi, you know to never trust any movie ever again, and you know that only the important characters die and they only die when everything seems to be going perfectly. So you would rather prepare yourself for that moment than engage in the story. Sometimes the characters do actually die. Where does that land you? You were right! So what? What if you get to the end of a movie and none of the characters have died? You were wrong, and you missed the entire movie. And then you have to act like you know what people are talking about after it wins an Oscar for best picture. THIS IS A WASTE OF YOUR TIME.

My mind is maddening, and heart breaking. I don’t want to live in constant anxiety, impatiently asking “where are we going,” and “are we there yet?” I want to be able to enjoy things recklessly.

That’s why I hope that I never lose my childish impulsivity. Twisted as it may be, I see it as a gift. It will continue to lead me to great consequences and pain, but also maybe to greater joy.

Fear opens his eyes to see Hope standing over him holding his rifle.

“What the hell you thank yer doin’?”

“I’m gettin’ the hell outta here. I got the whole world to see, and I’m goin’ with or without you.”

“You won’t survive out there.”

“I won’t survive in here! You can either come with me, or stay here in this shithole and rot. I don’t give a damn.”

Hope turns around, kicks the door down, and leaves. Fear reluctantly follows.

• A small sample from “My Weird Brain as a Shitty Lifetime Movie” by Elizabeth Genz