I don’t understand the rules of conversation. Things that are unspoken and how to leave things unspoken myself. Understanding others, generally. I’ve spent a lifetime studying, hyper-focusing, trying to mimic communication…and yet something is always a bit off. The ins-and-outs of what is acceptable and pleasant are unclear – always just out of reach. As I learn, something changes. Every situation new and unique and more confusing than the last.

I’m always in the push-and-pull game of seeking genuine connection, but unintentionally being terribly difficult to get to know. Being an open book in case someone takes the bait, while simultaneously being straight-laced and quiet. 

My husband and I were just talking about this hard-to-explain phenomenon where, even when we seem to be on the same wavelength as those around us, so often is what we say still not “right.” Our honest efforts and bids for connection fall flat. We’ll fully digest everyone else’s words and formulate the kind of response we’d like to recieve. Yet, often, it still won’t land. The conversation falters, fades, pauses in a moment of their obvious “What do I say to that?”.

There’s a distinct memory of a time I was thrown into a lively group conversation where, as I sat awaiting my turn, I brewed a question that I was entirely certain would elicit a new wave of interesting commentary…but as I spoke, the energy changed. It got quiet. All eyes averted. No one knew how to answer…and that’s it. Conversation once again moved along just fine without me. Something that felt completely appropriate to the situation – something I was unreasonably excited to say and went on a whole mental journey with before vocally committing to it – was the only topic of them all that no one could figure out how to discuss.

I constantly crave fun conversation, and there I was – ashamed and unsure of how to handle such a wasted opportunity. A chance to be seen for the person inside that refuses to come out. 

My misunderstanding of basic human nature isn’t fun. It’s not the manic-pixie-dream-girl, looks-hot-while-doing-something-silly, Ramona Flowers brand of non-conformity. I accidentally give people too many of my unfiltered thoughts, my brain shuts off at inconvenient times, and I stay up all night thinking about my friends secretly growing bored of me. My voice rises and falls in both volume and pitch as I tell stories I’ve likely told before. I replay my socially awkward moments on a loop and it never comes across as quirky, like I believed (hoped) maybe one day it would. I’m not Jessica Day, because this isn’t television and I’m not in a highlight reel. I’m, more often, an alien wearing a mask. If I pull it off, I am misunderstood. If I put it on, it’s glaringly visible.

Pang after pang of almost-connection, missed chances, frustration at what I lack. So I bend and break for a world that, mostly, doesn’t notice the effort. 

Because it’s not for a lack of trying. The lyrics I got tattooed on my arm say it all: “I’ve never been a natural. All I do is try, try, try.” It’s like saying, “Please understand I’m not like this on purpose.” Either I’m blank-faced, or a try-hard. Desperate, even. 

Desperate to be known as who I know I am. 

And that’s the issue: I desire something intangible and illogical – something that comes wholly unnaturally to me. I’ve never been good at being interesting or funny or a conversationalist on command. I go silent when upset or nervous, while my head screams at me to be normal. There is so much pressure in trying to cultivate (and maintain) friendships, family connections, etc. So much pressure in the unsaid and disappointment in saying too much. Because I know it’s in there. I know who I am at home – who I am when I’m comfortable – and I’ve always envied people who are the same everywhere they go. Likable people who stand in a group as an equal, not someone small and uncertain with a lifetime of messing up and misunderstanding looming over them. They befriend coworkers, bosses, strangers, etc. with nonchalance, and if there’s a lack of confidence – it rarely shows. They know, in a lot of ways unbeknownst to me, how to work the system.

I adapt and mirror and do what I can to be, from the outside, naturally likable. Easygoing. A potential friend. And it’s worked plenty of times, but the illusion shatters rather quickly. The second I open my mouth, all the holes in my safety net start to show.

I had an ex tell me that I act like a robot. Stiff movements and structured sentences and whatnot. He would get frustrated that I didn’t know how to have fun his way. I wasn’t anything like his friends, and it got harder over time to face that reality. I didn’t understand their jokes or know how to jump into conversations that moved at a mile a minute; conversations that would go on with or without me. I cared about my special interest too much, embarrassed him socially, and couldn’t participate in the silly things people who are comfortable in relationships are supposed to do. I took these things to heart and I really tried to be more free. Force it. Be normal. More like people my age, for the first time. I really tried to let go and be more like him, because he had that overwhelmingly likable trait I couldn’t pinpoint. I wanted to be enough because, back then, I believed no one else would get that far with me. I believed that in order to be loved, I had to pretend to be someone else.

Thankfully, when I met my (now) husband, I realized I just had to be listened to. I needed someone to notice my efforts before my shortcomings. I needed someone to look at me in total earnest when I’d say “I don’t feel like a person,” and tell me “you are a person.” I don’t have to be interesting by someone else’s standards because I don’t have to try to be interesting. I can exist without having to put constant thought into it. I can ramble and he listens. Participates. Whether it’s about something entirely made-up, something unimportant in the grand scheme of things, or something completely beyond ourselves. I can be socially awkward with him by my side and he’ll squeeze my hand. We do “performance reports” for each other on our car rides home. And, something incredible to top it all off, I make him laugh. Genuinely.

Often, I crave a form of this in all (or, at least, more) areas of life. There’s a desire for a little more than regurgitated simple responses to my conversational bait, like “oh, interesting,” or the dreaded “that’s deep” that inevitably shuts down any further discussion on impact. I crave something bigger than simple pleasantries. It would be so fun to know I could fall off the deep end and expect a cozy landing because of an inherent understanding of honesty, openness, and the acceptance of a little fumbling.

It’s all unnecessarily complicated living in the world as it is. 

To make myself clear, we’ve all had the introvert conversation shoved down our throats for years, and this isn’t that. The world could simply be a lot less divided with an ounce of open-mindedness. It’s not a divide between introvert and extrovert, man and woman, or any other harsh line between “right” and “wrong” that we’ve created – it’s people like me saying “I can’t function like you,” or “Your world is confusing,” and being met with some form of, “Have you considered trying harder?” Or, worse, a form of “Have you considered being more like me?” I did. Truly, I did. 

I had years full of mask-wearing and performing to show for it. I did all the daily rituals and cared about what I was told to care about and tried every trick in the book fed to me by people who naturally excelled in neurotypical nature. It nearly killed me. 

Societally, I’m tired of being the weird one for not inherently knowing how (or not having the patience) to navigate unspoken rules that were set in stone simply for the sake of being there – just to have something to do. Small talk is fine, but instead of it being a jumping-off point as intended, it’s too often a crutch. An exclusive boundary not to be crossed. 

Conversationally, I’m tired of uncertainty and unfulfillment. I haven’t improved much in pretending, no, but I have improved in saying “my way is worthy too.” And that has, finally, started to get me somewhere substantial. When my walls collapsed, I realized my strengths – which is worth a whole lot more to me than being understood. I quite like the unmasked version of myself: still fumbling, but with forgiveness. Patience. Acceptance.