Sunday, July 2, 2017
I'm not an easy person to like. I say that a lot. Most people see that as fishing for a compliment. I say it with the self realized evidence of the past several years. The one thing my Husband has admitted about first meeting me? He didn't really like me. He thought I was a "know-it-all". Most of the friends I have that stuck through the awkward stage? They'll say it took some time to "warm up" to the idea of being my friend. Most people will confess to me that they weren't certain about whether or not they could deal with me when we first met. . . Let that sink in for just a moment. Imagine being told for the better part of your late 20's early 30's that you are not the ideal, personable human being people befriend. Imagine being told regularly that you're "difficult" to enjoy. Now think about how that sits on the psyche. There's a good reason I don't reach out to people. There's a reason I don't go out of my way to go places, or throw parties, or even attend parties. Several reasons actually. The big ones come from what happened to me in my early 20's. The "little" ones come from the fact that I can't even get my own family to enjoy me, let alone strangers; so I just stay home. My children are difficult to like as well. Mostly because we spend so little time with people outside our own home. It's difficult to have play dates when no one wants to sit and talk to you as the adult. I stopped pretending I understand people in the middle of what was going on with me before. I stopped paying attention to whether people mattered when the Major was selling me as a commodity. It makes me difficult to like. I don't understand the purpose of small talk. I don't really care about gossip. I'm not all that interested in fashion, and the latest craze ( which should be evident by my inability to dress myself.), I don't know how to not be awkward. Awkward is kind of my default setting. I am out of place in the world. I don't fit in. I do better when I keep my mouth shut, but I end up dying a little inside because no one really knows who I am. I get an uncouth exuberance when a subject I know about is brought up. I feel personally insulted when people won't let me help them; because it happens so rarely that I can be useful. I feel a great deal of pain at the fact that my children are the wierdos because I can't make enough friends with children their age for them to have playmates. My heart breaks when they desperately want to play with someone, and I have made that impossible. There is a silent amount of guilt killing me because I am difficult to like. Yet if I pretend, and become likable, I also die a little inside. So, Parenting catch 22. Do you die inside because your children are lonely and unlike, or do you die inside because you're faking it? Maybe someday I will know the answer, and my children will forgive me for failing them in this area. Maybe.