I talk and people either laugh or mutter under their breath that I’m talking rubbish. So long as the laughter is louder than the muttering then I’m happy enough.
Maybe I’m stereotypical in that I’m basically depressive with a desire to hide that from myself and so I disguise it with humour. I guess I see funny people as basically flawed and damaged and by extension, I judge myself to be flawed and damaged.
I’m not really though.
I’m wise and knowledgeable and funny – but I don’t see myself as a person who can relate to people very well. It’s not that I don’t know how to get on with people – I know well enough what I do wrong when I rub them up the wrong way. It’s just that I have no patience with those who don’t have the skills necessary to be able to deal with me. I guess I’m not easy to deal with.
I give up on people very easily; one slight misstep and I move away from them so fast that they have no clue what happened. I’m not inclined to hand out clues. I just leave.. without saying why I left.
What can make me stay?
- Hmm – maybe a shared interest that transcends the inevitable missteps
- Erm – or an overwhelming enthusiasm for contact on the part of the other person
- Oh – and perhaps the kind of self awareness that only a saint could possess
- Ah – thickskinnedness, naivette and innocence could help.
Time heals all wounds. But it seems that an awful lot of time has to pass. I still think of replying to emails sent to me a decade or more ago. I’m waiting for something to give – I can feel myself waiting for it – but can I make it give before it’s time to give?
Maybe it’s time I pushed.
..or maybe not.