Why Do I Always Apologize?

Why do I always apologize?

I don’t mean when I actually fuck up. I do that too. I’m not walking around under the impression that I’m some kind of moral achievement. I fuck things up. I say things I shouldn’t. I get angry and occasionally turn that anger into something that, upon further review, could have used a little editing.

I’m talking about the other apologies.

The ones where somebody gets pissed at me and, after enough time has passed, I start feeling like there’s a fucking shopping cart rolling around loose inside my head and I won’t be able to get anything else done until I go find it.

Last year, Charlie Kirk was killed.

Tragic. I wouldn’t want anybody to die like that. If I got to write the rules, people wouldn’t be executed in parking lots or shot on stages or whatever new horror we’re going to pretend is somehow a normal Tuesday.

I made a Facebook post about it.

It was an ill-advised “good riddance” sort of thing.

And people came for me.

Not figuratively. Facebook people came for me, which is its own special form of medieval justice because you don’t just get one person telling you you’re an asshole. You get twelve people, three of whom you haven’t spoken to since high school, a guy you vaguely remember from your mother’s bowling league, and somebody’s cousin who apparently has been waiting fourteen years for the opportunity to explain morality to you.

I was told Charlie was a Christian man.

I was told he was a good man.

I was told I was a terrible person.

And I remember thinking:

What the fuck are you talking about?

I’ve seen his stuff.

More than I’d like.

I’ve watched the clips. I’ve seen the arguments. I’ve watched him poke people in the eye and then act surprised when they don’t thank him for the manicure.

Maybe he was a Christian. I don’t know. That’s between him and whatever god he was trying to impress.

But I thought he was a dick.

I still do.

That doesn’t mean I think he deserved to die.

This is apparently a difficult distinction for people.

You can think somebody is a dick and still believe they should be allowed to continue breathing.

These are not advanced concepts.

Then there’s my stepmother.

When my father died, she was the executor of the estate. She told my brother and me that she didn’t want any of it and that she would split it between us.

Okay.

Then the estate gets settled.

And suddenly the money comes with a fucking coupon.

The condition is that we take her up on her offer to “save” us.

Religiously.

Apparently the money that belonged to my dead father was now an opportunity for spiritual intervention.

So I called her a bitch.

I called her a liar.

I cut her off.

I wanted blood.

Not metaphorical blood, either. I wanted the kind of emotional bloodletting that makes you feel like you’ve finally gotten all the poison out.

And then, in both situations, something weird happened.

Time passed.

And I apologized.

Why?

Why the fuck do I do that?

I’ve been thinking about it because there’s something familiar about the feeling.

It’s the same feeling I get when I want pizza.

Or chocolate.

Or when I’m sitting at home and suddenly become convinced that I absolutely must go to a thrift store because somewhere out there is a lamp that will finally make me the man I was supposed to become.

It’s a physical thing.

A little internal alarm.

Something isn’t right.

Fix it.

Now.

And I think I’ve been treating other people’s disapproval like a craving.

Somebody is mad at me and my brain goes:

Well, we can’t possibly continue the day like this.

There is a problem.

There is dissonance.

There is a person somewhere in the world who currently thinks you’re an asshole.

Fix it.

Apologize.

Explain.

Smooth it over.

Get them back to neutral.

Because neutral is safe.

Neutral means nobody is mad.

Neutral means I can breathe.

And that is a pretty fucking pathetic way to live.

Because sometimes somebody should be mad at you.

Sometimes people should think you’re an asshole.

Sometimes you say something somebody doesn’t like and the correct response isn’t to sprint after them with an apology tucked between your teeth.

Sometimes you just let them be pissed.

I know this sounds obvious.

It isn’t, apparently.

I recently did a mock scenario with my life coach. She played somebody I might meet at the Austin Film Festival. She had read something I’d written and didn’t like it.

Didn’t like my writing.

That’s all.

And immediately, in a completely fictional conversation with a completely fictional person, I started trying to sell her something else.

“Oh, you didn’t like that one? Well, maybe you’d like this.”

Jesus Christ.

I couldn’t even let a person in a role-playing exercise dislike something I made.

I immediately wanted to become something she would like.

That’s when I realized just how deep the fucking problem goes.

I don’t just want people to like me.

I want to control whether they like me.

And when I can’t, I try to negotiate.

I’ll change the subject.

I’ll change the story.

I’ll explain.

I’ll apologize.

I’ll become whatever version of myself I think will get the room to stop looking at me funny.

Which is a hell of a thing for a writer to do.

Because what exactly am I supposed to write if I’m constantly trying to make sure nobody dislikes me?

My stories aren’t exactly greeting cards.

They’re sad.

A lot of them are about death.

Grief.

Guilt.

Families that don’t know how to talk to each other.

People trying to repair things that are already dead.

People carrying around old wounds like they’re family heirlooms.

That’s not going to work for everybody.

Somebody is going to read something I write and think it’s beautiful.

Somebody else is going to think it’s depressing as shit.

Somebody will think I’m talented.

Somebody will think I’m a hack.

Somebody will think I’m an asshole.

And somebody will probably be right.

That’s the deal.

You don’t get to make something honest and then demand universal approval.

That’s not art.

That’s customer service.

And maybe that’s what I’ve been doing with people, too.

Customer service.

How was your experience with Christopher today?

Did Christopher meet your expectations?

Was Christopher sufficiently agreeable?

Would you recommend Christopher to a friend?

Please rate your interaction from one to five stars.

Fuck that.

I don’t want to spend the rest of my life apologizing because somebody somewhere has formed an opinion about me that I don’t like.

I can apologize when I’ve done something wrong.

I should.

I will.

But I don’t need to apologize because somebody is offended.

I don’t need to apologize because somebody disagrees with me.

I don’t need to apologize because somebody doesn’t like my work.

And I sure as hell don’t need to apologize simply because somebody is angry.

Anger isn’t a subpoena.

Disapproval isn’t a court order.

Somebody being unhappy with me does not create an obligation for me to fix their feelings.

That’s the part I need to learn.

Not intellectually.

I understand it intellectually.

I need to learn it in the part of me that starts reaching for the phone three weeks after I’ve told somebody to go fuck themselves.

That part still thinks peace is more important than truth.

Maybe it isn’t.

Maybe sometimes the cleanest thing you can do is leave the fucking mess alone.

Charlie Kirk was a dick.

Did he deserve to die?

No.

Was he a dick?

Yes.

My stepmother was a bitch.

Did I handle the situation perfectly?

No.

Was I wrong to be angry?

No.

The person who doesn’t like my writing?

Fine.

Don’t like it.

There’s plenty of other shit on the internet.

Check.

Check.

Check.

Now leave it the fuck alone.

Move on.