Angela Reed
I’m Not Weird…
By
Angela Reed
As silly as this may sound, I had always felt that I talked too much or understood things too deeply--I'd say to my husband, "I don't know what's wrong with me...maybe I'm too intense." But I couldn't stop it. I wanted thorough, like the ravenous looking for a snack after taking a long afternoon nap--I HAD to have. Often in conversations, I would lose track of what someone was saying because I would think, "Well, what does she mean?” or “Hey! that was out of the Guernsey Potato Peel Pie novel—Yeah! Yeah!..the way Isola Pribby said it.” I felt like Dug, the talking dog from Pixar's Up, trying to follow along but suddenly, "SQUIRREL!!"
This psychosis was chronic reoccurring with everyone I would meet and just about every party or women's group I attended or claimed membership. Choosing not to feel sorry for myself, I explained it away, “You’re just weird, and that's okay."
I set out on the self-remodeling task of accruing "normal people" strategies:
-timing my responses to be the brevity of wit
-responses will be less than 15 seconds
-I forbade myself to carry on or add any prepositional phrases to my stories or responses.
It was a labor of fatigue, but I grievously obligated myself to such restrictions so that the world would not be burdened with the task of me. Interactions became work, and work became commonplace (sigh).
Ah, but not for long would I remain in the state of tacit forlorn. When my youngest child reached 2nd grade, I decided I would take a job in a private school; it was my first year teaching, plus it was my first teaching position. So, I was invited to the Welcome Back Teacher's Luncheon--I had to be introduced as a new faculty member. I sat down at a table and began conversations with my neighbors almost instinctively cutting myself short-cuing myself as I had trained--but then the moment occurred, the pivotal spin of my new world motion; the woman I was talking to said, "Oh, but what were you going to say? Tell me; it sounded like you cut yourself off.” That lovely experience continued for the most glorious luncheon I had ever attended--two hours of narcotic bliss.
During a break between conversations I galloped, freed from a stable of instability, outside to make an urgent phone call---trembling with joy, I had to tell my husband, lightened, anticipatory, when he finally answered the phone, I said with a newly discovered relief, "Honey, guess what? I'm not weird…I'm a teacher."
By
Angela Reed
As silly as this may sound, I had always felt that I talked too much or understood things too deeply--I'd say to my husband, "I don't know what's wrong with me...maybe I'm too intense." But I couldn't stop it. I wanted thorough, like the ravenous looking for a snack after taking a long afternoon nap--I HAD to have. Often in conversations, I would lose track of what someone was saying because I would think, "Well, what does she mean?” or “Hey! that was out of the Guernsey Potato Peel Pie novel—Yeah! Yeah!..the way Isola Pribby said it.” I felt like Dug, the talking dog from Pixar's Up, trying to follow along but suddenly, "SQUIRREL!!"
This psychosis was chronic reoccurring with everyone I would meet and just about every party or women's group I attended or claimed membership. Choosing not to feel sorry for myself, I explained it away, “You’re just weird, and that's okay."
I set out on the self-remodeling task of accruing "normal people" strategies:
-timing my responses to be the brevity of wit
-responses will be less than 15 seconds
-I forbade myself to carry on or add any prepositional phrases to my stories or responses.
It was a labor of fatigue, but I grievously obligated myself to such restrictions so that the world would not be burdened with the task of me. Interactions became work, and work became commonplace (sigh).
Ah, but not for long would I remain in the state of tacit forlorn. When my youngest child reached 2nd grade, I decided I would take a job in a private school; it was my first year teaching, plus it was my first teaching position. So, I was invited to the Welcome Back Teacher's Luncheon--I had to be introduced as a new faculty member. I sat down at a table and began conversations with my neighbors almost instinctively cutting myself short-cuing myself as I had trained--but then the moment occurred, the pivotal spin of my new world motion; the woman I was talking to said, "Oh, but what were you going to say? Tell me; it sounded like you cut yourself off.” That lovely experience continued for the most glorious luncheon I had ever attended--two hours of narcotic bliss.
During a break between conversations I galloped, freed from a stable of instability, outside to make an urgent phone call---trembling with joy, I had to tell my husband, lightened, anticipatory, when he finally answered the phone, I said with a newly discovered relief, "Honey, guess what? I'm not weird…I'm a teacher."