Remember that song in the 90s that went, "I talk to myself, when there's no one to talk to / People ask me why, why I DO what I DO..."? I think that sums up the theme of this post. During our dinner last month, Damon called my attention to something he noticed about me. He said he was nervous to bring it up because he didn’t know what my reaction would be, but he decided to tell me that night.
Damon: You know that you talk to yourself?
Me: What do you mean?
Damon: When we were getting food (at the buffet) I saw you talking. I thought you were talking to that lady next to you but you weren’t. You didn’t notice that lady looking at you?
Me: No. I didn’t even know I was saying anything. Hmm… must be stress or something.
I laughed it off to Damon as me just stressed out about tenants, but his observation really freaked me out. Am I really that fucked up?
When I was a kid I didn’t have a lot of friends so I would make them up. I got the idea from those awesome Calvin and Hobbes comic strips, and would make up all kinds of different characters to talk to. As I grew older, I couldn’t pretend that the characters existed anymore, but I found something… soothing about talking to myself. So I kept that going by waiting until everyone went to sleep at night, and then going into the living room to have a nice conversation with me. One night my mom woke up and caught me. The very next week she had me see the school psychologist. The psychologist and I had an agreement: I wouldn’t do anything weird and I get to hang out in his office during 7th period English class, taught by the incredibly old and boring Ms. Roberts. I would invite Brooklyn Mike to some of our "sessions", where we would hang out and play Uno. And even after that, I still talked to myself when no one was around.
With the invention of the Bluetooth, it became very easy for me to talk to myself in public. I’ve been doing that ever since I got one. This, I thought, was the farthest I would ever take it. Obviously my subconscious had other plans.
Look, I enjoy talking to myself. It helps me deal with the stuff that goes on here, and it’s actually very healthy for someone who has no friends in the area to talk with. Even when I write on this blog, I’ve usually talked to myself about it for days… this accounts for the “stream-of-consciousness” style of writing that emanates from every post. But unknowingly talking to myself is just too much, and borderline psychotic. I knew that being away from society and social situations for so long would have some effects, but I really didn’t expect this.
Honestly, I don’t know how to solve this problem. And I don’t think I care anymore. I’ve done as much as I possibly can to at least appear normal, so I’m just gonna let it go. In fact, with all the bullshit that’s been going on with family, I may just push mating season back to July or August. I’ve got enough problems to deal with right now, and adding someone else to that equation will only make things worse. And maybe talking to myself is actually helping me get through all the BS.
Damon: You know that you talk to yourself?
Me: What do you mean?
Damon: When we were getting food (at the buffet) I saw you talking. I thought you were talking to that lady next to you but you weren’t. You didn’t notice that lady looking at you?
Me: No. I didn’t even know I was saying anything. Hmm… must be stress or something.
I laughed it off to Damon as me just stressed out about tenants, but his observation really freaked me out. Am I really that fucked up?
When I was a kid I didn’t have a lot of friends so I would make them up. I got the idea from those awesome Calvin and Hobbes comic strips, and would make up all kinds of different characters to talk to. As I grew older, I couldn’t pretend that the characters existed anymore, but I found something… soothing about talking to myself. So I kept that going by waiting until everyone went to sleep at night, and then going into the living room to have a nice conversation with me. One night my mom woke up and caught me. The very next week she had me see the school psychologist. The psychologist and I had an agreement: I wouldn’t do anything weird and I get to hang out in his office during 7th period English class, taught by the incredibly old and boring Ms. Roberts. I would invite Brooklyn Mike to some of our "sessions", where we would hang out and play Uno. And even after that, I still talked to myself when no one was around.
With the invention of the Bluetooth, it became very easy for me to talk to myself in public. I’ve been doing that ever since I got one. This, I thought, was the farthest I would ever take it. Obviously my subconscious had other plans.
Look, I enjoy talking to myself. It helps me deal with the stuff that goes on here, and it’s actually very healthy for someone who has no friends in the area to talk with. Even when I write on this blog, I’ve usually talked to myself about it for days… this accounts for the “stream-of-consciousness” style of writing that emanates from every post. But unknowingly talking to myself is just too much, and borderline psychotic. I knew that being away from society and social situations for so long would have some effects, but I really didn’t expect this.
Honestly, I don’t know how to solve this problem. And I don’t think I care anymore. I’ve done as much as I possibly can to at least appear normal, so I’m just gonna let it go. In fact, with all the bullshit that’s been going on with family, I may just push mating season back to July or August. I’ve got enough problems to deal with right now, and adding someone else to that equation will only make things worse. And maybe talking to myself is actually helping me get through all the BS.
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