I don’t understand people. By that, I don’t mean that there’s one particular incident which has led me to being confused about how certain people are acting: I mean I don’t understand people.
At dinner the other day, a group of us were comparing our earliest memories. Mine? Being yelled at by my pre-school teacher. I was three or four, and she kept telling me to look people in the eyes when I spoke to them. I didn’t, and I couldn’t explain why I didn’t want to. It was hard enough to understand me, she said, because I had a speech problem. I did, and I was in speech therapy from the time I was three or four until about ten years old, when the public schools decided it wasn’t nessecary and we couldn’t afford a private therapist.
I’m eighteen and have yet to be comfortable making eye contact with people. I can never quite figure out where to look when talking to people. I’m either staring like a freak, or looking away like a freak.
Our classes at my college are all small, discussion-based classes. There’s an average of fifteen people per class. All my classes are incredibly supportive ones, with genuinely nice people. They don’t laugh if you make a mistake. I still need to force myself to speak in class. When I do talk, I’m one of the annoying ones. Filler words (um, uh, like…) are every other word.
There’s few things more frightening to me than the idea of going up to someone and starting a conversation. Half the time, even if I know them, I won’t. I can’t stand talking on the phone, though I have no problem with instant messaging or email. I’m usually the first one to break off from a group on Saturday night: being in groups of people is unsettling for me. I don’t know why. Part of it is, regardless of what we’re doing, eventually someone’s going to touch me. Sit too near me on the sofa. Something like that. I’m fine with touch if I start it - I’ll often go up to my roommate and hug her. I can’t stand to be touched if I don’t start it.
I’m generally perfectly happy on my own. Two of my favorite activities are reading and writing: both decidedly solitary things. I’m fine with being introverted. But there are occasional times when I wish I was less so, because then people wouldn’t ask me why I like being alone all the time, why I don’t want to hang out. Being less introverted would, in a way, mean needing to deal with people less.
I know I should see a psychologist about this. There’s two on campus I could talk to for free. I’ve been in therapy before, when my parents forced me. I hated it. I already know at least one of the issues. To my ears, I still have a very noticable and ugly speech impediment that makes me look like an idiot. I’ve asked one or two people about it: they say that if they listen for it they can sort of hear it. I don’t know if I should believe them. And I think I know a few of the other issues that lead to my stress level in general. I know that if I go to a psychologist and talk about it, it may help.
Yet I still won’t. Every day now for quite some time, I’ve told myself I’ll call and make an appointment. I still haven’t. I’m afraid to, for some reason. I desperately want to get these stupid, unnessecary obstacles out of the way, but I’m not willing to get help.
sigh So. Now that that horrid lump of wallowing in self-pity is out of the way - is there hope for me? Or advice? Or a loving-yet-firm thwap upside the head, telling me to stop being such a lowlife?