Some people overshare. Others build emotional fortresses. Me? Iβve mastered the fine art of keeping it on the skin.
Perhaps you’re familiar with the drill. Someone asks how youβre doing, and before you can answer, theyβve launched into a monologue about their week, their pregnant cat, their new coffee and lemon diet. And thatβs fine. People love to talk about themselves. I get it.
So, I listen, nod in the right places, maybe throw in a well-timed βWow, thatβs hecticβ for effect. Itβs an exchange, a chess match I intend to lose fast and go home for some quiet, really. It’s a dance with 2 left feet. But when the music fades, attention shifts to me? Thatβs where things get whatsoever and otherwise.
Itβs not that I donβt want to talk. Itβs just that when the subject is me, the conversations tend to skim the surface. I drive them on the surface, deliberately. Slowly or quickly over the vaseline anointed skin. I’ve perfected this skill for years. Nothing goes in, nothing goes out. And maybe thatβs for the best. Because the moment it dips beneath the skin, when the questions get too deep, too personal, I question it all. I get that subtle but unmistakable disconnect. The mismatch of concern versus comprehension. Suddenly, Iβm explaining instead of sharing. Or worse, Iβm being consoled for something that doesnβt need consolation.
Take my life as a special needs parent, for example. People mean well. They really do. But the way they react tells me all I need to know. The standard βI donβt know how you do itβ or the slightly pitying head tilt. The vague encouragements, the misplaced admiration, the assumption that I must be some kind of saint. The conclusion that I’ve got it together. Letβs be clear, I don’t. None of us has. Iβm just a parent, doing what needs to be done. No capes, no halos, just reality. Many of you do the same, we just don’t stand on top of church steeples and shout.
So, I keep it light. Iβll talk details (emotional, spiritual, logistical) so long as they slide on the Vaseline. We can discuss the systems, the routines, the bureaucratic gymnastics required to get whatβs needed. But the moment we start peeling garlic layers, I shift before the stink comes out. Not because Iβm hiding. But because some things donβt need to be shared with everyone. Not everyone earns that torture.
And thatβs okay. Not every relationship is built for depth. Some, of course are for depth, but depth on superficial matters. Some are for exchanging pleasantries (like the hi, hello, how are you, I’m fine how are you again ones). Some are for venting about the unpredictable damp English weather and the price of cheap no-name bread. And thatβs enough. And it’s actually good that, it’s all enough.
But every now and then, you meet someone who gets it. No explanations needed. No performances required. And when that happens, you might just let them past the skin. Until they strike a nerve ending.
