That I Would Be Good

“This next song, I wrote in my closet. I was in my house and there were so many people in my house. And when I create something I need to be alone and silent for the most part. At that particular time, my house was full of people and I didn’t want to kick them out. So, I went into my closet and shut the door. I just lit a candle and sat there and wrote these lyrics. This is actually a case in which I wrote the lyrics first and the music later…”

— Alanis Morissette, VH1’s Storytellers

Oh, Saint Alanis. My favorite Canadian.

I feel so grateful to have discovered her at the tender age of 7, watching Pop-Up Video on VH1. I had no idea what “Would she go down on you in a theatre?” meant, but I belted it out like I did. Whether I was watching the “Hand In My Pocket” video or seeing her do flips in “You Learn”, something deep in me connected with her. I felt like we were kindred spirits—not in a creepy way. I just understood her, and she made me feel understood.

It wasn’t until I saw VH1’s Storytellers and read her more recent interview in The Guardian that I fully understood why I felt that connection: we share a lot of the same struggles. While I haven’t battled substance abuse, I have wrestled with eating disorders, insecurity, and the deep, often painful, need for external validation.

That’s probably why I tried out for The Real World, joined a sorority for a hot minute, got a weave, did a test shoot for Playboy, joined dating apps, and downplayed my intelligence to attract men. All in pursuit of approval. Of belonging. Of being seen.

It takes a lot of self-reflection to realize that you don’t need outside validation to be good. Alanis takes us through her version of that awakening in “That I Would Be Good”:

“That I would be good, even if I did nothing

That I would be good, even if I got the thumbs down

That I would be good if I got and stayed sick

That I would be good even if I gained ten pounds…”

I’ve always struggled with feeling confident in myself—especially about my appearance. That insecurity was closely followed by this need to be whatever other people expected me to be. I’m also known to hide, particularly my intelligence. I don’t want to sound like I think I’m Einstein or anything—but when I first meet people, I relate on a superficial level. You meet my representative first.

Let’s start with my appearance.

I’m currently working on a longer piece about always feeling like the ugly duckling. Quack. I’ve spent the last two decades seeking approval for what my “representative” looks like. I’ve talked before about being a latchkey kid, gaining weight in sixth grade, and how that led to eating disorders. Why? Because when I returned from summer at my dad’s in Missouri, I came back skinny—and suddenly people were nicer. Kinder. That hit different. It made me crave approval. Because if I had it, maybe I wouldn’t be alone.

But there is such a thing as being alone in a crowded room.

So instead of being myself, I conformed. I kept my mouth shut about current events. I avoided talking about the environment. I pretended not to know too much about football because I didn’t want to be “one of the guys.” I hid my love of South Park and Dave Chappelle. I said the “right” things. I wore makeup like my “friends” at the time and tried hard to be a version of the girl guys wanted. (Side note: people are way too generous with the word “friend”. Let’s call them what they were: acquaintances. Backstabbers.)

I had a lot of guy friends in high school and desperately wanted approval from other girls. So I jumped through hoops to be accepted—only to realize I never wanted to be part of their clique in the first place. I’m not like them. I didn’t need the approval of girls who sat around spreading rumors and talking about each other behind their backs. 1) We had graduated high school (I thought), and 2) that’s not friendship. I was better off without them.

And when I started wearing makeup well, working out obsessively, and covering my thinning hair with extensions after a bout of bulimia—that’s when the male approval came pouring in. But those men didn’t have the best intentions. And I didn’t have the introspection yet to ask why I needed their approval so badly. Maybe it was the boys in middle school who asked me out as a joke. Maybe it was feeling invisible in high school. Maybe it was not feeling seen by my father for a long time.

“That I would be fine even if I went bankrupt

That I would be good if I lost my hair and my youth

That I would be great if I was no longer queen

That I would be grand if I was not all knowing

That I would be loved even when I numb myself

That I would be good even when I am overwhelmed

That I would be loved even when I was fuming

That I would be good even if I was clingy…”

I used all those things—makeup, hair, appearance—as a security blanket. Alanis did that too. She’s even said she used her hair that way. (And we know she has a lot of hair.) I didn’t feel comfortable with the hair growing from my own scalp. Even after it grew back healthier, I covered it up again. Until something shifted—after the end of an emotionally abusive relationship.

When I came back from Missouri, I took my extensions out. I ran my fingers through my natural hair. I washed it, conditioned it, loved it. That moment was so freeing. Everything I thought I knew about myself felt like an illusion built by societal pressure.

Yes, I wear extensions again now—thanks to another temporary backslide with the bad guy, and the stress-related hair loss that came with it—but it’s different now. They’re not a crutch. They're not hiding anything. This too shall pass. And soon, I may go without them again. But even if I keep them? I’m still me. I’m good without them. They’re not there because I need them. They’re there because I want them. And that makes all the difference.

“So I stopped for the first time in my whole life a couple of years ago after the tour for Jagged Little Pill. And I had always been running and grasping and searching, intellectualizing and all of those fun things — and none of them actually resulted in my finding what I thought I was supposed to find.

I felt that I lived in a culture that told me I had to constantly look outside myself to feel this elusive bliss. And I achieved a lot of what society told me to achieve. And I still didn’t feel peaceful. I was always curious about fame and the joy that would come with public approval—even though I don’t think there’s such thing as unanimous approval from anybody. And I realized that was an illusion. Once I realized that, I started questioning everything.

And it was scary—because everything I believed in and lived by started dissolving. There was a death of sorts. A really beautiful one, ultimately, but at first a very scary one…”

— Alanis Morissette, VH1’s Storytellers