I don't do drugs (besides the ol' drink). I have enough energy. And my mischievousness tends to lead me to some level of bliss on its own.
But I think I may have an addiction to interacting with people.
I love it. I love to know about you. I love drunken late night talk-a-thons. I love surprising people with my story. I love being surprised with theirs.
I am attracted to the unique or the inspiring.
I don't mean grandiose philanthropic inspiration, I mean life inspiring.
We all have a big, badass story. And many of the regular people around us that seem so average have dealt with and overcome more than we can imagine.
And I'm addicted to knowing about them. I'm fascinated by it.
I'm addicted to the organic evolution of a relationship.
How a joke turns into a conversation then turns into a friendship that turns into the legitimate "giving a crap" about a person.
I love the moment it occurs to you that you may be talking to somebody awesome.
I love looking into the eyes of somebody and giving a fuck.
I never leave a room without saying goodbye.
I am generally happy to see people.
It's not a sexual thing, I just love people, and their stories.
Unfortunately, I have been made to feel as if this wasn't a good thing. I forced myself not to care as much. It's taken these last few months of singularity to let that part of me blossom again.
I started this for therapy. Because I was so confused and terrified of this loneliness ahead of me. A loneliness I knew I couldn't avoid.
This one, this time....it was all me.
And that scared the living shit out of me. It still does.
They said I should write. And I decided to. I thought it would be my semi-funny stories of all the people I end up running into.
But now I'm starting to interact.
I'm finding that loneliness doesn't exist without other lonely people.
There is an honesty in this anonymity that I would never be able to find outside of this little secret world I've created.
I don't know if its working but it's making me actually feel like writing stuff that isn't just tales of my silly shenanigans.
Stuff that makes me feel.
I dont want to be a writer. I think my lack of authored eloquence is a disservice to some of the ridiculously talented but completely unknown writers in this world.
My inability to articulate my feelings is something I can't unlearn. I am not this expressive am I?
I talk to everybody. You can't stop me.
Take me to the opera or a monster truck show, it doesn't matter, I will end up in a corner surrounded by people, telling some ridiculous tale.
But talking about me? The real me? Pfffft. HA!
My mom died last December. I didn't tell anybody.
People I spend countless hours with every week, they had no idea. I just didn't tell them. Who does that?
This experience in writing about how I actually am is so ridiculously alien to me.
But I've found people. REAL people. Out there. That share this awkwardness and pain. Some of it a million times worse than mine. People that are getting through it and not even blinking.
But people that understand. That reach out to a strange twitter URL without hesitation. Without apprehension. The opposite of my bizarre neurotic introverted emotional cone of silence. People that understand.
And I don't know what I think about it.
Shit, I don't know if I'm even going to publish this. But I can't ignore whats happening to my brain.
I'm hoping you'll understand.
Fuck it, I'm going in for the kill.