It begins with an episode of WTF. Marc Maron is attempting to describe the difference between sketch comedians and stand-up comics: “[Sketch comedians are] not required to drag their fucking sad bag of shit up on stage. You know, you’re doing characters, you’re doing improvs, you’re acting in the moment, where basically a comic at some point is like, ‘Alright, here’s my bag, let’s start going through it.’”
“I always resent comedians who don’t bring the bag,” Marc’s guest, Mike Birbiglia, responds and they continue down a conversational path about the necessity for honesty in comedy.
Then came the goddamn Enneagram test. I took it and I was an 8: The Challenger. Which is all fine and good because I’m brave and unstoppable and all around a hero, except guess who else is a Type 8: Saddam Hussein. and Castro. and basically all dictators. To break it down even further, I came face to face with this:
- Basic Fear: Of being harmed or controlled by others
- Basic Desire: To protect themselves (to be in control of their own life
and destiny)
To me, this was an oh shit moment, like having the fun-house mirror image of myself shattered and coming face to face with my actual reflection. No, I’m not Saddam Hussein, but there is a lot of stuff in my life that I have not been honest about, even with myself, in order to control my own image and to protect my gooey insides.
The unguarded moments of my life are slipping away. The older I get and the more I get hurt, the more walls I feel going up. I joked with my sister the other day that I am becoming an armadillo, and though I love to joke about what hurts the most, the truth is it breaks my heart that I am losing the things I love about myself underneath layers of armor. Not only do I not bring my sad bag of shit to the stage of life, I’ve tied the drawstring, wrapped it in padlocked chains, put it in a safe and buried that safe in the back yard, which also happens to be home to a couple of vicious Rottweilers.
It’s exhausting and I can see how it prevents me from making any real connections with other people. I know what Birbiglia is saying. I resent the facade on other people and frankly, I find it fucking boring. I don’t have time for people that can’t be real with me. Yet I am so unapproachable that most people can’t be real with me. I have layer after layer of cynicism, apathy, and arrogance that protect me from the vulnerability that comes with having a relationship.
To me, bringing the bag represents a lot of things. It means admitting my weaknesses. It means accepting my mistakes and flaws and acknowledging my pain and fear. It means not protecting the emotional people in my life from my emotions, because they’re big kids and they can handle me being human, too. It means being the same person with all people all the time, damn the fear of rejection and damn the politics.
What would it be like to take it all down and operate from a place of honesty instead of fear?
This is me digging up my bag and bringing it with me to find out.
