In Defense of Silence

Whenever I played team sports in gym class, I always preferred being on defense. In soccer, I'd hang around down near my own team's goal, feeling as though I was going to be more helpful down there. I was never an aggressive player. I often ended up in the right place at the right time to help my team. And even when I was just standing on the field, just chatting with the goalie while everything interesting happened on the other end of the field, I felt like I was being helpful. As though by not acting, I was setting up a better strategy for moments to come.

And I guess that's how I play life as well. I have so many coping mechanisms and defense mechanisms that it's a wonder that I'm not mechanical. But I'm great at protecting myself. Self-preservation is my specialty.

I learned long ago that I'm great at talking myself into and out of things (a good example of this being my concept of "As Good As Gay"). I'm able to convince myself that the things I predict will happen are all for the best. I'm good at seeing something that's going to fall through long before it does, and I know what steps to take to make myself the least disappointed. I shape a cast around my heart long before it has even broken.

I also have great skill with abstract thought. I make connections that other people don't, which is either advantageous or alienating, depending on the circumstances. And I'm constantly thinking. Even if you don't see them turning behind my eyes, my wheels are always in motion. And whereas most people have linear thought processes, I tend to think in webs. Every new idea leads me to a whole set of unrelated tangents. (Like this one about how I think, for example.)

I only mention how I think because it relates to my methods of self-defense. I'm overly analytical. I think far more than I should. And before any important action, I think through a thousand consequences. I think until my hands shake and the world is blurry. I think about the things that could happen and the things that never will. I think about the positives, the negatives, and everything in between. That way, no matter what happens, I'm a little more prepared than I would've been (I've already mentioned how much I hate surprises).

Now, this bubble-wrapped life of mine does come with it's drawbacks. I'm not much of a risk-taker. I don't stir the pot if I don't have to. And there are a lot of things that I don't do because I think it's going to benefit me or someone else in the long run, no matter how appealing it may seem in the moment. (Really, the only time I have a tendency to be impulsive is when I'm shopping, and I've been using a system of checks and balances on that one with Megan for the last decade... Dear God. I just realized that it's been a decade since I started high school. Well, 9.5 years technically, but close enough. Egad!)

Sometimes I think about things for so long that it becomes too late to do anything about them. But I'm generally able to convince myself that it was meant to be that way (I am, after all, good at talking myself out of things).

Generally, I'm a pretty honest person. Mostly because I'm a terrible liar. But also because I don't like lies. Honesty is much more appealing.

But I am not of the opinion that "not telling the whole truth" classifies as lying. Lying is fabrication, not omission. Withholding information is completely different from lying. And I find that it's often completely necessary.

It's not that I'm trying to lie. It's not that I'm trying to be manipulative. It's just... I feel this need to strategize.

Most of the time I do things like this, it's with the intention of protecting someone. Sometimes that someone is myself. Usually, it's whomever the thing I'm hiding pertains to. Sometimes, it's whomever I'm keeping the secret from. And sometimes, those last two qualifications have to do with the same person.

Brian finally read the entry I wrote about him.

Maybe I shouldn't have written what I did. But I felt like I had to. And he reads this infrequently and without pattern... I guess some part of me thought there was a chance that he'd never see it. I guess I left things up to God/The Fates/destiny/the universe. And I convinced myself that it was for the best.

There was a lot that I didn't put in that entry that I would have if there were no chance that he'd read this. A lot of things that can't be said.

As a side note, I recently realized that I talk about Brian almost as much as I talk to Brian. Is that unhealthy? Or stalker-esque or something? Or perhaps I'm finally riding the final hill into the valley of mental illness that I've feared for so long with my thinking-man's-hypochondria.

Anyway. Every time I told someone that Brian was in Nebraska and in love with me, I could expect to hear the same answer: "Oh, this isn't going to end well."

We had a long conversation a couple of nights ago. Brian's apparently over me. Yes, over me. Meaning not in love with me. I don't know whether it had anything to do with reading what I wrote. All I know is that I was just as confused and messed up by him saying that he's not in love with me as I felt when he said that he was. Only this time, I wasn't smiling and blushing during my silence on the phone. I sat with furrowed brow and no words that would create a proper response.

I've been silent through large chunks of many phone conversations with Brian, which is something that I don't do much with anyone else. Sometimes it's because he's analyzing me and trying to bring slices of my soul to the surface. Sometimes it's because I'm not sure how to react to the inane things he's said. Maybe I'm just comfortable sitting in silence with him.

After we ended the phone conversation (because he goes to bed about 3 hours before I do), I ended up composing a long e-mail, saying all the things that I've never said. The things it feels like I can't say or shouldn't say... so I don't. Things that I've wanted to say that I thought weren't okay to say.

Maybe it was because I'm sick (I have a tendency to be blunt when I'm sick). Maybe it was because I was sleep deprived (I hadn't slept the previous two nights, thanks to the sickness and my insomnia). Maybe it was the medications I was on. But it just seemed like things he needed to know. Things that he should know now that he says he's over me.

I finished the e-mail. I reread it, and deleted a few paragraphs (using the self-censoring techniques that come along with my defense mechanisms like a 2-for-1 deal at Target). I wrote an introduction about how I probably shouldn't send it. And I wrote a conclusion blaming it on my illness/medications/insomnia. I went to hit send, but then stopped myself. I walked away from my computer. I said a prayer. I called Megan (at what I'm sure was an ungodly hour in Michigan... and on a school night for her, no less). And Megan did exactly what a non-sexual soul-mate should: she talked me through it without pushing me in one direction or another. And we decided that I should sleep on it before sending it. So I saved it as a draft and left it in my e-mail account.

Fact about me: I'm a great secret keeper, but everyone always knows that I have secrets. Somehow, I'm bad at the poker face part of the secret-keeping process. Still, I'll keep a secret as long as you need me to do so. I have a secret that someone told me in 8th grade that I've never told (again, that was a DECADE ago). And a handful of them from high school (including one that has to do with a wide circle of my friends... and I've never told). Some of them I've kept for so long that they don't even matter any more. Others I kept for so long that I forgot them. Once I swear my secrecy, I'm a lock-box, baby.

But that fact also applies to my own secrets. Hence how I ended up telling Brian that the e-mail that I didn't send exists. He thinks the fact that I mentioned it means that on some level, I want him to talk me into sending it to him... something like that. And he's a little bit right. I do want to send it to him. But I won't. Not now, anyway. Because I know that right now, some things have to stay secret. And I'm very good at that.

Besides, it's for the best. In the long run. For the both of us.

Or, at least, I've convinced myself of that.


May you always know how to stay silent when you know you should, no matter how much you want to scream.

~A~



P.S. Yes, the shadow picture is a self-portrait. (Someone once asked if I was naked when I took it. Can you believe that?)

P.P.S. For those of you non-Reader users (dude, seriously look into them... they're fantastic. I use Google Reader), you might want to get in the habit of checking back here every Monday and Friday, so as not to be disappointed (I'm trying to post a Wednesday-or-Thursday and a Saturday-or-Sunday... and I often post at night, as that's when I'm free to write... so that's a good way to save yourself heartbreak...). Or, if you're like Amy and you just like having something to check, by all means keep checking back. It makes my hit-counts look higher, which makes me giddy.

P.P.P.S. If you do use a reader, please click to this page on occasion. I'll admit that it's mostly because I like having my hits go up. But it's also for all these good reasons that my blog-buddy R.E.H. pointed out. (Please read his post... And please comment on this one. Feed the bloggers! We all love responses.)

P.P.P.P.S. I've been listening to "Three Wishes" by The Pierces all day. I just added it to my Project Playlist, so now you can listen to it all day, too. (You might recognize it from Gossip Girl when they had that debutante ball... You know, if you're a loser like me and you're completely addicted to Gossip Girl... And you bought the episode Victor/Victrola on iTunes... And think that the British actor Ed Westwick -- a.k.a. Chuck Bass -- is fiercely sexy. Just me? Okay then.)


ETA: I just noticed that saying the title aloud sounds like "In Defensive Silence." Or maybe "Indefensive Silence" (not that it's a real word, but you can infer a meaning). And it's not too far from "End Offensive Silence." And that made me laugh.

Why We Want What We Want

At one point in my college career, I was a psychology major. It actually lasted for a couple of years (unlike most of my majors, which were crosswalks from one path to another... I funneled through them with great frequency). I often remember things I studied during that time and attempt to apply various theories to my life. To be honest, I do the same thing with what I learned in "Play Analysis for the Theatre" (I once came up with a very compelling and relatively accurate way of dissecting a friend's love life by comparing it to Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?... Yes, his relationship was, and is, that bizarre).

One theory (it had some form of study to support it, but I can't for the life of me remember what that study was) stated that when you do something to help someone else, YOU end up liking THEM more. They don't suddenly appreciate you more and want to be around you more. Oh, no. That would be far too obvious. Instead, you gain a greater appreciation for them. Perhaps it's because doing something for someone else gives you a sense of accomplishment or validity that you associate with happiness, and then there's some sort of quasi-Pavlovian response that makes you want to feel that again. Or, to be terse, maybe people just want to feel needed. Anyway, a tip for all you guys and gals out there: if you want someone to like you, get them to do things for you that you can't do yourself (a friend of mine recently suggested that I ask others to put letters into envelopes for me, as obviously that's something that I struggle with... don't judge me).

I fall into the trap of helping others too much, and subsequently caring more for them than they do for me. I like to say that I have a Savior Complex. To be honest, I'm not certain that's what it's called. I might have named it after the Something Corporate song, "I Want to Save You" (while I was in Rome, I listened to that song every night before I went to bed... and usually cried). I constantly feel the need to "save" people. I surround myself with people who are screwed up, because I somehow know that I can fix them. Can I? Sometimes, but not always. Some people cannot be cured, and others don't want to be cured. Some people actually like being abused and tormented by their inner-demons. And some people, no matter how much guidance or advice you send in their direction, will continue to make the masochistic choices that have been keeping them firmly rooted in a self-inflicted depression.

Why do I seek out these people? Because on some level, I think that once I fix them, they'll be able to fix me (the song I mentioned before contains the lyrics "I want to save you/I need you/Save me, too.") I know that I need saving. I need someone to come into my life, see everything that I'm doing wrong, and tell me how to change it. No, I need them to force me to change it. I'm too afraid to do it on my own. I've been trying to win a war against my fears for about 2.5 years now (before that, I was completely content with them ruling my life). Every once in awhile, I have a major breakthrough (usually around a time of metamorphosis, as I mentioned before) with one or more of my personal demons. While some are vanquished permanently (I'm pretty much done with my fear of singing in public, thanks to a production of Cinderella and many rounds of alcohol-assisted karaoke), others haunt me for years. My social anxiety pops its head back in every six months or so. I am in constant need of validation, or else I am at great risk of returning to a hermit-inspired existence (ah, here's a bit of proof that I'm a walking contradiction: I'm unable to accept compliments, but if I don't get reassurance I go into wild strains of depression. If I weren't so cheerful right now, I'd start to wonder if I'm a mess). This gets particularly bad in February of every year. No good reason for that... Perhaps I have Seasonal Affective Disorder?

By the way, I'm a bit of a hypochondriac. Not the sort that thinks pain means I'm dying. I've never been concerned about having cancer, a heart attack, ringworm, etc. No, instead of physical hypochondria, I have psychological hypochondria. A thinking man's hypochondria, I like to call it. I was convinced that when I got to college, my dormant schizophrenia would manifest itself. Didn't happen, for the record. When everyone at work started getting sick, I began washing my hands multiple times whenever I went to the ladies room. Obviously, I was terrified that this was "ritualizing": a sign of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. I sporadically question whether I'm bipolar. The only thing wrong with my brain is a new-fashioned case of Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder. I also have the occasional bout with insomnia (I'm hyperactive, so of course I don't sleep... makes perfect sense), which I have determined makes me cathemeral (meaning that I have a completely unpredictable sleeping pattern. I like to think that it makes me special).

Anyway, back to the Savior thing. The current fellow in my life once said that he has the desire to be "that guy" for whatever gal he is currently pursuing. The guy who will step up to the plate. The guy who will understand her like no one else can. "That guy." As soon as he said that, I immediately equated it to my own need to heal others. Maybe my goal is to be "that girl", but I've just found a different way of saying it. Maybe this fellow and I will be able to save each other...

But logically, I know that isn't true.

If you've ever been on an airplane, you've heard the whole "in case of emergency" speech (if you haven't been on an airplane, go watch the pilot episode of Lost and it should help you to understand what I'm about to delve into). If there should be some problem with the air pressure in the cabin, oxygen masks will drop down from the ceiling. Your instruction is to put on your own mask. You are to make sure it is securely fashioned to your head before attempting to help those around you who may be in need of assistance. Trying to help someone else when you're not getting a proper amount of oxygen to your brain is just going to put both of you in more danger.

The major downfall of the Savior Complex: it's a sham. It cannot succeed. You will never win. How can you possibly help someone else when you don't know how to help yourself?

Besides, I'm not certain that a Savior Complex even exists. Maybe it's just human nature. A friend of mine once said that "women want to be wanted and men need to be needed." Or maybe it's the other way around. I can't remember. I always had difficulty trying to figure out what the difference was. Isn't being needed just a very strong form of being wanted? I understand the meaning a little more if it's rephrased as "women want to be objects of desire and men want their presence to be vital." Of course, that's not as catchy of a phrase.

Anyway, I don't believe this theory at all. Mostly because I don't enjoy sweeping generalizations. Or things divided by gender. I'm a major supporter of gender equality. I suppose I'm a huge hypocrite, as I attended a women's college instead of a co-educational institution. Men are not allowed to attend simply because they are male. And I chose to go there, so I suppose on some level I do believe that there are differences between men and women. But in general, I believe that any "women vs. men" theories are wrong.

There is one subject on which, I fear, I am terribly sexist. I'm not bisexual. Nothing is more sexist than that. Being bisexual is being willing to love anyone, regardless of gender. It's a very open-minded state of being. I've also heard it described as greedy, which I won't argue against (I've met a couple bisexuals who seemed as though they were just in it as a way of hedging their bets). I feel almost guilty about the fact that I prefer men to women, and I have tried to open myself up to the possibility of bisexual relationships in the past. I tried especially hard when one incredibly terrific girl started making passes at me in college. She was intelligent, talented, attractive, and funny. She was everything I'd look for in a man, but I just wasn't into it. I'm embarrassed by how sexist that is.

I find many women attractive. Gabrielle Union and Rachel McAdams, for example. Of course, it's more a situation of "I wish I could be her" than "I want her." I just enjoy men too much. Give me Matt Damon or Michael Bublé, and I'll rip myself apart in gleeful celebration (which would be rather stupid, as then I wouldn't get to enjoy the desirable specimen of man that had been bestowed upon me... I must rethink this). I think, on some level, everyone is a little bit bisexual. Just a little. Usually a small enough amount that people can live their entire lives only seeking one gender and be completely content with that. Most people never acknowledge it. Maybe some don't even realize it. I, personally, will never actually attempt to start anything with a woman, although I certainly understand the appeal. Perhaps that's why I wish my reflection looked more like Isla Fisher than me.

I look into mirrors a great deal. I have several in my new apartment, which is terribly exciting. Have you ever stared into a mirror for so long that your face stops making sense? You stop seeing your own mental image of yourself, and you begin to see your face for its components. It's interesting. I always wonder what people see when they look at me. Do they see me as I see myself? Is their mental image of me characterized more strongly by my eyes or my mouth? (I recently had a semi-stranger tell me that she thought my mouth was "captivating". I didn't know how to take that. I think I became a little self-conscious about my mouth as a result, which is probably the opposite of a logical reaction.)

Sometimes I dance in front of the mirror, to see if I'm as insane a dancer as I am in my mind's eye. Generally, what I do isn't nearly as hideous as I think it is. Of course, even if it were appallingly bad, that wouldn't stop me from dancing. I love to express myself through movement. Dancing is probably the only thing I can think of that makes me temporarily throw out my self-conscious nature. I spent the majority of last weekend dancing around my apartment in my underwear, singing into a lamp as though it were a colorful microphone. I rock out at levels you wouldn't believe when I'm alone. I'm lucky that none of my neighbors have complained. But then, I don't complain when they turn up the volume on their televisions at 10:30pm and I can hear incomprehensible Spanish murmuring. So I think we're even. Maybe they enjoy hearing me sing and dance. Who knows? I like to think that they do.

I always hope that I'm brightening up other people's days just a little. Knowing that I make other people smile makes me smile. It's a weird sort of tit-for-tat relationship that they don't even know exists. A friend of mine once said that there's no such thing as altruism, because anything you do to help someone else is really just a form of self-validation. Maybe he's right. Making people happy makes me happy. But I suppose that's the same sort of vaguely cyclical logic that leads me to believe that saving someone else will make me saved.

My aunt says that "part of wanting someone is knowing that they want you," which I suppose is in a similar vein. That idea always worries me when I'm interested in someone who shows signs of reciprocating interest. Is he only interested in me because he can sense that I'm interested in him? Or, conversely, am I only interested in him because I noticed on some level that he was interested in me? These are the sorts of questions that can make you go batty. It's best for me if I avoid thinking on them all together. But, as you should know after reading my writing, I can't stop thinking about anything for very long. I get stuck in long, winding waves of painful cognizance.

I'm terribly paranoid about everything (paranoia -- yet another mental disease that I don't actually suffer from but worry about constantly. I'm paranoid about being paranoid, if that's possible. Of course, I'm relatively confident that I'm misusing the word paranoid, but I don't care. This is my blog, and I'll use whatever words I think will get the point across). I worry about my relationships a great deal. I become concerned with whether people like me (and then I go through fits of joyous elation when it becomes apparent that they do. There's a little bit of Sally Field in me, I suppose). After the things I've written over the last two days, I'm beginning to wonder if I'm too complex of a person. How can anyone possibly deal with me? The best ways to handle me are counter-intuitive. I'm warped and quixotic. And somehow, I'm simultaneously concerned with being boring. I'm a puzzle that no one seems equipped to solve (and I include myself in that).

So for now, I'm going to return to my normal, non-typed form of soul-searching. Thank you for reading. Do come again.

~A~