It’s one of those nights where you put on the most soft and cozy clothing you own, retreat way up high to your lofted bed where no one can get to you, wish your roommate (and most other people and noise-making objects) out of existence, hide under your sinfully fuzzy warm purple blanket, and curl up with your security blanket and your stuffed animals.
As much as I so highly value real conversations with real people about real, important things that go deeper than the weather and homework (because they so rarely happen), it’s absolutely exhausting. And I don’t really know how to do it in real face-to-face life either. Which is unhelpful, uncomfortable, and awkward for all parties involved.
Hurrah for introversion, a disconnect between mind and tongue, and poor social skills.
As much as I love The Potter’s School and being homeschooled, it has caused a few problems. I’m like an awkward child who doesn’t yet know how to interact with her peers and is caught in the body of a college student, bearing the weight of everyone else’s expectations that she be normal like them, and consequently the guilt? blame? that comes with realizing that everyone thinks she’s either rude, stuck-up, insensitive, or just plain doesn’t like them or doesn’t care because she doesn’t know how to answer them. When really none of these things are true at all.
Meh. Expectations are lame anyway. I figure they’re more like…guidelines…than actual rules…
Maybe by the time I graduate I’ll have figured a few things out. I’d kind of like to have a real, meaningful conversation, just once, without it trailing off to me staring at the other person and smiling awkwardly in defeat, while mentally berating myself most violently for not knowing how to vocalize the many things that are in my head and heart and that I would have no problem conveying were the conversation happening via written text rather than spoken word.
I need to hand out a warning to the people I am getting to know. Disclaimer: Just because I don’t talk doesn’t mean I don’t care. My smile isn’t mocking, it’s sympathetic. When I’m staring at the ground listening to you talk about real things that hurt and not saying a word in return, it’s not because I wish you’d shut up. It’s because I really just want to give you a hug and tell you I’m sorry, but I don’t know how. I avoid your questions about how I’m doing not because I don’t want to tell you, but because I don’t know how to tell you. And for goodness’ sake, don’t apologize for asking me when you see how uncomfortable I become. Because even if all I say is “I’m awesome. I’m always awesome.” and I can’t answer you any better than that, it doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate the fact that you cared enough to ask. It means the world. It really does.
Oh, the wonderful world of the interior of my mind. Not a quarter of my thoughts ever make it out of my head. And I’m sorry for that, because it’s usually the lesser quarter that you hear and the rest of them, the words I should be saying, stay locked up inside. The more important it is that I say them, the more they need to be heard, the more impossible it is to speak.
Judge me all you like as some sort of reclusive stuck-up freak. I honestly don’t mind, and don’t really care what most people think of me anyway, as long as they keep their opinions to themselves.
But just so you know? I really do care about you. Always. And when I’m smiling at you wordlessly like an idiot, just know that I am wishing with all my heart that I could say even just a few of the things I’m thinking.