When We Talk

“Bye!”

“Bye!”

Immediately after the call ends, the smile still on my face, I ask myself the question. It’s always the same question.

“What could I have done better?”

Maybe I could have provided more joy with better humor. Maybe I responded poorly as a confidant. Or missed an opening. Or weakened my negotiation.

Then there’s listening. Always could have done more listening. Better listening. More empathic listening. Missed follow-up questions. Mysteries untouched.

Meticulously scanning the back and forths, I remember almost every word, every noticed facial expression (not frequently enough, I admonish). I pause to ask myself how it felt. How I feel.

I rarely know otherwise.

Shift gears. I calculate the talking to listening ratio.

Dammit. Eff. I really like to talk. A lot.

I also really like to talk about myself. Double dammit.

“Look, you’ll keep doing better as you practice, you should just write more as an outlet,” my brain tries to encourage me.

“I don’t want to write that much! I don’t have the time!” I respond grumpily.

“Then I guess you get to be a lazy ass who risks using people,” my shadow condemns.

“Hey, be nice!” I practically hear my aunt’s reproval audibly.

“Yes, be nicer to yourself Stephen” I murmur, reminding myself of my old therapist.

My mind wanders to a sentence my Uncle once said about the Aspergers spectrum.

“As if that were a helpful thought now,” I chuckle.

Eventually, a map of the conversation emerges and I carefully file away the questions I didn’t ask for later. My dreams will answer some and expand others. Sometimes months later.

I wonder why this my ritual. What is it I’m trying to get? Security? Understanding? Love? The question stops here before devolving into the full existential confusion. It’s probably love. Maybe the best I can do is accept the habit. Or program myself to ask a different question, a better question… later, you know: when I have more time.

Then I fall asleep feeling loved or ashamed. Never both.