I am not an easy person to be friends with. I’m not being self-deprecating. It’s not like I’m mean or selfish or particularly high maintenance, but I do have a tendency to disappear, sometimes for long periods of time. I get overwhelmed by interaction, by the noise of life and the efforts to be the consummate good person. I need to spend time alone with my thoughts, to clear away the debris that has clouded them. I guess you could say I am a loner.
I have a complicated relationship with time and deep feelings of shame at having disappointed anyone; the two do not mix well. I feel like a bad friend so much of the time, but I also need the elixir of solitude. A lot of it. It is how I am wired. It is probably why I have never had that many friends. People either get it,, or they don’t. They either understand it isn’t personal, or they take it personally and decide a friendship with me isn’t worth the trouble.
I am not one for socializing in big groups, for banter or easy conversation. I don’t think I play well with others, to be honest. I always feel on the outside, always. Maybe that is why I am a writer; or at least part of it. Writing is such a solitary thing, and that suits me. Obviously I want my writing to be read; I have this blog and my poetry is all over the internet, but I only have to be present for the writing of it, not the reading. Once something is out in the world, being read (hopefully), it is no longer about me, no longer mine. My meaning ceases to exist and new breath gives the words new meaning. It’s like giving away parcels or snapshots of myself, peeling layers away and offering them to whoever happens upon my words.
I feel myself disappearing. I feel the need to shed the noise. I always return, but only because I allow myself to disappear.