Making Me Human

Why is my first instinct to hide myself?

I was talking with some people the other day--people my own age, normal people. It was going well, to my great surprise.

Don't let them know.

The thought reverberated clearly in my mind. It a suggestion offered up by my subconscious, very nearly a command. It stopped me in my tracks.

What?

Let them know what?

And then it hit me: myself. Don't let them know about me. Surely, if they knew me, they wouldn't be so cheerful, so willing to talk.

Because I'm a bad person? Maybe not. I'm tainted by the sin of the world, certainly, but I don't far surpass it. I hope. I'm aware of my shortcomings, at least, and I try my best. I don't think I'm a bad person.

But . . . perhaps I am. Perhaps that's what my internal self recognized.

If they ever found out about that, it says to me. Or this, or those other things. If they knew . . .

If they new, indeed. If they uncovered all the rips and stains that litter my heart and mind. I panic.

Oh God. Don't let them know. Don't let them know any of it.

My heart picks up, skips a beat, and stops. It restarts, shaky. They couldn't know, and never will. I wouldn't tell them. I will hide that part of me indefinitely.

A list in quickly compiled in my mind.

I should hide my thoughts--too strange. My opinions--they'll judge me. My dreams--they'll think they're stupid.

I can't tell them about the promotion--they'll be jealous.

I can't tell them how I'm doing--not really. They don't actually want to know.

So . . . what am I supposed to show them? What part of myself isn't "too this" or "too that" to expose to the world? Why do I think everything about myself is wrong?

Inner self, you're a bitch.

So, I'm different than some people. Than a lot of people. And that's okay.

I shouldn't hide myself because I'm afraid of reprisal. I should "hide" because they wouldn't appreciate what I have to offer. Does that make them stupid? No. Does it make me pretentious? No.

It just makes us different.

They wouldn't care a whit what I have to say on the theme of sexual abuse in Oedipus Rex; so I'll talk to them about the cute GM.

They're not interested in me unveiling the depths of my soul; so I'll keep the talk superficial.

You know what the funniest bit is? It's pleasant. Not every conversation needs to be life-changing. Sometimes, it's enough just to connect on a basic human level. To laugh together. To smile. To share a knowing wink.

So, we don't exegete Ulysses. My conversations with them are not riveting, intellectually satisfying, or otherwise noteworthy in the least. But when I'm with them, for the first time in a very long time, I feel utterly human.

And that, my friends, is worth more than any lecture hall has to offer.

The Thing Is, I Don't Matter

I've experienced the profound relief of realizing what little impact I have on the world.

I walk around with all these grand delusions about what my presence has wrought, so to speak.

"Oh God, she must be torn up about what I said. She'll never, ever forget."

"I hope he'll be able to get over me forgetting about our study date."

"Will that clerk ever be able to recover from my short reply to him?"

Yes. Yes, they all will. You want to know why? Because I'm a fairly insignificant part of the world as a whole.

Thank God.

I didn't fuck it it up.

Everything is going to be all right. La vie continue--I don't have to carry this around with me anymore. A weight in my chest has just dissolved, a weight I didn't even know I was carrying around with me. I'm breathing easier. The scratching guilt in the back of my mind has ceased.

What a lovely feeling, to know that my actions did not bring about such serious consequences that, in my self-absorbed worldview, I believed they did.

I didn't fuck him up.