really though.

If we're being honest, and I've decided to be, I actually do enjoy talking, sometimes.  It does seem as though I can last much longer without social interaction than most people, but that doesn't mean I'm happy when I go without it completely. 

In a therapy session a few weeks ago, I discovered that I have a pretty substantial need for approval.  It's very rarely not on my mind.  My main strategy for avoiding not being approved of is simply rejecting approval altogether.  I act as if I could care less about what anyone thinks of me; I shut down.

This is a sort of survival tactic that I developed as a child, and I just haven't managed yet to replace it with something better, healthier.  Maybe it protects me from rejection, but it also blocks me from potential acceptance, from relating to or helping someone else.  It causes me to go days and weeks without sharing myself.  I almost forget how good it feels to have a conversation, to laugh at a joke or, heaven forbid, make one. 

I'm not saying that I will ever enjoy small talk.  Especially the kind that happens in a break room with an almost-stranger while I'm trying to read.  I doubt I will ever find such things appealing.  But I am saying that I think I need to find a better balance and I'm not sure where to start.

none.

While you were away,
I learned to keep myself company
for longer than anyone should.
While you were away,
I picked lilacs to lure you in,
but it didn't do any good.

I won't be unreasonable.
I won't say I blame you
for everything wrong with me.
But it does seems as though
you're at the heart of all my stress.

There's no telling when I'll see you again.
But thanks for being present when you could.
Thanks for assembling me, I guess.

determined determinism

I attach myself to what I know won't stay.
Because it's safer that way.
Because if they found something
wrong with me, well,
I knew they would anyway.

I've been spending some time 
with my three-year-old self.
My subconscious persistently
pulls this same book off the shelf.
I'm old enough to be her mother,
but I just can't seem to get her attention
long enough to point out her cover
that no one took the time to mention:
all of this anger and conviction
and survival tactics that were used.
I'm expected to put away childish things,
and it just leaves me more confused.

Because it's always been one big sham,
long before I had the ability to plan.
This so-called pure being
hasn't been around since
before I can recall.
Like a fleeting father figure,
too weak to stay 
and hold my hand through it all.

According to the psychologists,
this is the reason I can't look you in the eye.
I haven't taken a stand on the theory,
all I know is 
I'm more comfortable in disguise.

So I guess I've been bred to run
at the first sign of sincerity.
I guess the way you genuinely care
just repulses me.
Because when they find something wrong,
I expect it.
Because if you found something wrong, 
that would be the end.
When they point out what isn't connected
I reject it.
If you saw this deficiency,
I couldn't contend.

You see straight through me,
I can't pretend.