Home > Uncategorized > On Talking Too Much, Blurting Things Out, and Being Impossible

On Talking Too Much, Blurting Things Out, and Being Impossible

            I can remember, exactly, how I felt the first time someone I respected told me that I talk too much. I was about 12 years old. I was curious about everything. I was forever thinking out loud and asking questions. Then, in the company of an adult I pretty much worshipped, I must’ve asked one too many questions – or shared one too many of the thoughts in my head.
            “You know,” he began, “If you talk less, when you do talk, people will be more inclined to listen to what you say.”
            I’m sure my face turned red. I know that the words stopped coming, then. I kept quiet. I felt an odd sense of shame. Maybe worse, I felt silly. The incident made me feel very small, unworthy almost in a way that was foreign to me.
            When you tell someone to stop talking, it isn’t that you’re just telling them to be quiet. You are telling them that they are unworthy of being heard – that what might be important to them is not, in fact, important at all. After all, if it was, wouldn’t you want to listen? When you tell someone to talk less, especially a child, you aren’t simply commenting on what he/she has to say – you’re kicking at who he/she is. Because we are, among other things, our thoughts. We are the things we dare to question, love, ask, examine, and share. After all, an unexamined life is not worth living.
            Since that incident, and about a thousand after it, I’ve struggled with the art of offering – what to say, what to hold back, and who to tell at all. You don’t, if you’re wise, share your deepest thoughts with strangers. Sometimes, honestly, you don’t even share those with friends. They aren’t always pretty, and we are afraid, aren’t we? Of being rejected or dismissed for some part of who we are – some part that may not quite shine as brightly as the rest. Some space within us that’s rusted or tarnished – a blackened penny at the bottom of a secret well.
            Sometimes, I hold things in. I hold things back. The reason is that there’s still that small voice, sometimes, that insists with quiet determination that I’m not worth listening to – that what I have to say or want to say doesn’t matter. That it is simply chatter that might annoy someone. As such, perhaps to combat that fear, I always do my best to not just listen to the words coming out of your mouth – but to really hear you. Active listening. There is nothing passive about me. But that is hardly the point I want to make now.
            I have an ungodly tendency to just…blurt things out. If I’ve held in something for so long, something I’m afraid to release out into the world, I may spill it at the worst possible moment. I have, especially in matters of the heart, the worst timing you could ever imagine. But even with that fear that someone burrows its way inside my nincompoop of a head, I will say the uncomfortable, difficult, scary, and problematic things. I have grown accustomed to the mess. I have learned to accept the fear. I’ve begun, I suppose, to brace for the inevitable silence that might follow some confession.
            Is silence the worst thing? No, it isn’t. Because silence is a reaction, perhaps, of surprise. Silence, following a confession, means I heard you. Silence, often, says I’m thinking. I’m taking it in. Because, let’s face it: we all ninja-drop emotional bombs. We all sputter out uncomfortable truths or questions. I did that a few weeks ago. I asked something I had no intention of asking, but in a moment of complete emotional nakedness, the words were out of my mouth before I knew it was happening. My brain basically got bitchslapped by my heart, which took over the verbal parade. Incidentally, unlike the moment from my childhood, this confession and question didn’t leave me feeling shamed. I was/am proud of myself for it. Sure, the timing could’ve been worlds better. But, honestly, good timing is a myth perpetuated by a lot of less than savvy things. Trust me on that.
            Back to my point: a how a person reacts matters. It is important, when someone tells us something profound, that it is acknowledged. It doesn’t have to be met with a grand parade (honestly, no parades – and no clowns). Something as simple as, “I hear you. I heard what you said. I need time to process that.” There are a thousand ways to do that right. There’s only really one way to do it wrong, which is to invalidate someone else’s feelings, thoughts, and/or existence.
            So, yes. Maybe I talk too much sometimes. Maybe my timing is beyond ridiculous, veering into abysmal. But I’ve learned over the years that anyone worth talking to, will hear you even when the rest of the world is noisy, even when the words come out in fits and starts, and even when the situation is impossible.
            It’s the impossible moments and things we should live for. It’s the impossible hearts we know and stands we take. After all, impossible just means someone else doesn’t believe. Impossible just means it hasn’t happened yet. Impossible means fight, means challenge.
            I am, after all, a perfectly impossible girl. I wouldn’t have it any other way, darlings.
            How impossible are you? 

Categories: Uncategorized
  1. February 4, 2014 at 10:16 am

    You’re an interesting person with lots to say. There’s always an eager audience for that.

    • February 4, 2014 at 5:51 pm

      Jim, you are so very sweet — thank you! 🙂

  2. February 5, 2014 at 12:51 pm

    Your art matters.

    • February 6, 2014 at 5:51 pm

      Thank you, darling. That means a lot. ❤

  3. February 6, 2014 at 1:39 am

    Wow, your post hit me hard today. I used to be very frightened about showing anyone who I really was, and I remember a few times when I tried to reveal myself and was shushed or otherwise embarrassed back into silence. Slowly, I managed to find, one by one, people who didn’t make me conform to their ideas, and made a safe haven for me to be me. Once I was able to be myself, no one could make me get back into the box they’d reserved for me. Now I’m happy, whether I’m possible or impossible.

    • February 6, 2014 at 5:52 pm

      Gayle, I can reallllly relate to a lot of your comment. And while I don’t wish you to have gone through that, it’s almost oddly reassuring, because someone else understands that feeling/fear. But, man, finding your safe havens and your voice? It’s a huge deal. And I absolutely love your comment. Thanks, chica. 🙂

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