I wonder, sometimes, what it is that makes it so hard for people to talk to me.
As I always have, I look inward first. I’ve (apparently) always had a problem with this, looking for the problem inside myself before I look elsewhere. Certainly, many people who know me might roll eyes at that, have some anecdotal evidence of me blaming someone else or citing a situation or problem other than myself, but rest assured, that didn’t come first. I’ve always looked inside first, blamed myself for the problem. Logic and a defined thought process lead to me looking outwards. Eliminate the impossible, and whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth? Someone famous said that once, even though I think he might have been fictional.
I suspect the problem with people not talking to me must be me, that this is a problem where the truth is that I am at fault. Somehow I give people the impression (at least, I get the impression this is the impression I’ve made) that I will break like a dropped egg, or explode like some crudely crafted homemade bomb when something difficult is said to me. It’s sad, really, how few people will tell me real things. It’s touching that they worry, but I cannot help but feel I’m being deprived of information I really need.
Or maybe I just expect too much of people. I expect less of others than I expect of myself, and I certainly never ask someone for something I wouldn’t be willing to do myself. Maybe I ask too much of people sometimes. Maybe I should not expect unconditional love from anyone who for whatever reason cannot love me unconditionally. Maybe its unfair to ask it of them.
In case it hasn’t been evident, I’ve been in a pretty dark place mentally for the last week and a bit. Longer, in fact, but it’s become fairly acute in the last little bit. It has been a time of great upheaval for me in general, and some very specific points of upheaval are causing extra discomfort.
Yes, I call it discomfort, because for the most part, I have a pretty comfortable life. I am not hungry, I am not deprived. I have a generally good life, despite what feels like a very strong karmic imbalance right now. I persevere, I maintain faith, that good things are coming. Isn’t that a sign of insanity, doing the same thing over and over and hoping for a different result? Not so much difference between insanity and hope, if you ask me.
However, I am not where I want to be in life. My mind is often a thousand miles away. It upsets me a great deal, my mind being so far away sometimes – more than most would believe possible, let alone proper. Right now I cannot do what I feel is right for those I love in the way I would like. Situation and circumstance have made that a short-term impossibility. Not impossible forever, just for a while.
Sometimes I wake up in the morning and wonder how it could get worse, and with enviable timing, the world shows me how.
And then I have to fight the urge to bemoan the fact that it seems my world is collapsing around me. Fight the urge to succumb to despair. I am, after all, the architect of this world, and therefore responsible for all its glorious bits and equally responsible for all the squalid bits underneath. See how its internal first?
Of course that’s only half the story of accountability. Too often I find myself trying to take responsibility for other people’s happiness, and I can’t and shouldn’t do that. I need to separate myself from those who would gladly hand responsibility of their happiness to me. When it’s offered, I feel obliged to carry that weight.
But that weight, it burns me out, wears me down. Leaves me threadbare. Feeling empty. It’s bad for me. I can’t do it any more, and shouldn’t have to.
Maybe that’s why I’m so hard to talk to, because I’m threadbare. People see me, see that maybe I need to be responsible for my own happiness for a while. But I can’t help myself, and offer to carry theirs, if even for a little while. Make their life easier for a bit.
And really, who could resist that?
I have no problems talking to you, my friend. These days its finding the time. I have a tremendous pile of guilt about all the people I really want to keep in contact with and need to get better about doing so.
I’ve rather enjoyed the times we’ve had sitting down in person and chewing the fat. They are all too rare (sorry for the meaty references).
I’m terrible at writing letters or emails. I feel too self absorbed. As I write I think ‘yeah, like this person really wants to read all this crap. As if I’m that important or doing such interesting things.’
So file me away under “This Isn’t My Fault.”