So I used to think my problem was that I hated people. That I was anti-social or somewhat of an introvert (if I’m even using the word in the right context here) which I’m probably not because I’m sure the original definition has nothing to do with talking to people.
But anyways.
Wait, let me google.
Introversion is an attitude-type characterized by an orientation in life through subjective psychic contents…
Right, whatever that means. So basically, I’ve been using my personality as technical labels to justify an everyday lifestyle. Great, probably not a good idea.
But here’s the thought I was trying to make: I don’t in fact hate people than I do their vain expectations of my emotional feedback, which is often absent depending on the conversation.
For example, just the other day a woman was openly telling me about a fire that happened near her building…
…
…
…
Exactly.
Now I know for many years I played along. Embarrassingly enough, for two weeks I spent reading books on communication. Saving time clarifying, convincingly reacting and then writing about it later.
INSANE. I know.
But on that day, I just sat there. I mean I didn’t react at all.
“Is everything okay?”
But then she stared and honestly I laughed. Though mainly because I rarely take to such responses. I mean usually I just figure I’m misunderstood.
“I’m fine.”
But now she thinks you’re a psychopath.
And I left her with that.
Until next time.
“It’s important to get out of the house occasionally to remind yourself why you don’t go out.”— Unknown
