I can be pretty intense. Yes, it's true. Coming from a background where people are required to share everything, we're all best friends, anything not shared must have malicious intent; it's hard not to be intense. I grew up believing that being late was a moral failing, forgetting someone's name was like spitting on your best friend, not answering your phone was akin to hating someone, not responding to an email was considered an act of hostility.
Some of these lessons are good to learn - how to be on time, how to pay attention and focus, how to be considerate of others. All wonderful traits to work on. But when they become a life and death, heaven or hell doctrines, you start running into problems.
Take for example, getting married. Being around someone who's not used to that intensity can be peculiar. It's one of those things that's nice for a little while when you're dating but then it starts to wear you out. And here's the thing: when you're taught that all that intensity is supposed to be channeled into making your partner happy, not only can it be overwhelming for them, but eventually it wears on you because your partner has no clue how to match that intensity. But they might be perfectly happy receiving a whole lot of it.
That's how my sexual relationships started. So much intensity from me, but partners who had no clue how to give back. And for a long time I didn't let that problem bother me. It's all good, I thought, I'm supposed to be giving anyway. But years go by and it starts to wear on you.
Then eventually you have kids and you're tired and that intensity has to be spread between more people. There's more of them and still only one of you. You're left on crumbling ground and your partner still hasn't figured it out. They're almost resentful that you're not focused on them, even if they used to dodge the intensity all the time. They liked having the choice of accepting or rejecting whenever they wanted and not having to DO anything. But now you're both faced with a dilemma: you're not willing to go back and they have no idea how to go forward.
You sign up for counseling. You spend a lot of time working on your boundaries and finding autonomy without as much intensity. You work on small talk without having to make a deep connection with everyone you meet. You try not to scare people. But here's the thing: you've always defined love with this big nebulous ball of intensity inside you. And if you're not being all intense, you can't really tell if you feel love. It's so romance novel cliched, but it's true. You can keep going just fine, but your brain is missing out on that feeling: that flying adrenaline from knowing everyone within an inch of their life.
You feel like some part of you is hidden away. You're afraid to even open the box because you're not sure if you can control it. So you don't say much, in case you say the wrong thing. People think you're really quiet and shy. And you are, but not simply for the reasons they assume. You're scared to get rejected and end up without a place again.
I went and did this giant run in May, on a team no less. And I came home feeling like I was flying. I had a taste of that intensity again and my brain turned on. It's not even like I really visited with people much or had some deep connection. I just "fit" for a little while. It was heady. I haven't felt like that in years.
But there's always a crash afterwards, right? And there was. A couple days later, I could barely make small talk with people. It all felt so futile. Like I really didn't fit in at all. Some of these people were the same ones I was in a van with and I realized once again that I don't truly fit in with them. I couldn't make all the pieces fit.
I kept pushing myself and I got through the crash. But that swing made me think, maybe I need to start opening that box again. Maybe I need to try and control it, but let out some part of who I used to be. I've had quite a number of years placing internal timers and reminders around myself: normal people get there 5 minutes late, normal people don't write 5 page emails to others on a daily basis, normal people don't sustain eye contact all the time and don't remember every detail someone told them.
Do you understand? That means I had to learn to tune people out so they didn't think I was too intense. I set my internal clock to force myself to leave 5 minutes later than normal. I pretend I don't remember things. I look at the day I got an email and specifically don't reply right away. I remind myself to pull out my phone when I'm around others so it looks like I'm not as invested.
I feel like I'm doing better. It's getting more natural. But it also feels very dull. There's not much space left for your heart when you're so used to processing everything analytically and deliberately. But it's scary to open up. It's scary to feel like you might get used or rejected. Then again, it's also depressing to stay in this static rational state. And let's be realistic, I can't sustain the same intensity even if I wanted to, with two kids and other responsibilities, so then I worry that people are going to think I run really hot and cold if I let myself be who I am.
I'm going to get out there. Eventually I'll push that balance a bit more and maybe I'll find a better place on the spectrum to feel more like myself. The good part is, I feel very strong and I almost feel normal...relatively often. But some part of it is not me, at least not the whole me. This recent run gave me the push I needed to see I still have that excitement inside me. I don't have to stay in this solemn state, at least not as often. I've pushed through so many other things, I should be able to push through this too.
So, if you meet me somewhere, I hope I act normal. It's possible that I'll be quiet. I probably won't be loud. I hope I won't freak you out if my intensity gets the better of me. I hope you won't hate me when I crash and shut the intensity off. For each step I take closer to being normal, I'm hoping that I move down the rational/emotional spectrum enough to be true to my heart.
No comments:
Post a Comment