The Art of Losing People

I am convinced that losing people is an art, and I am even more thoroughly convinced that I am the next van Gogh. I like my ears too much to ever consider trying to cut one off, but still ---- I'd like to think that I am kind of an expert when it comes to art. My "art," though, isn't The Starry Night; it's watching person after person walk away after just a short amount of time of he or she being in my life.

Various therapy sessions have been dedicated to me, frustrated yet somehow with dry eyes (wow, it's a miracle!), asking the stupid question What is so wrong with me that people keep leaving? The response I have always gotten is a somewhat clichéd one that is pretty much identical to stereotypical break-ups in rom-coms: "It isn't you, it's them" (i.e. *Guy breaking up with a girl*: "It isn't you. It's me. You're great! I just need to work on me"). I know that answer is meant to make me feel better, and maybe my therapist is telling the truth that my stubborn heart has a hard time accepting; maybe it really does have nothing to do with me. Maybe the people just had their own problems to sort out and their own personal issues to deal with.

The problem still is, though, that I am extremely stubborn; I refuse to accept that it wasn't and isn't my fault when people decide to leave. Because it IS my fault. I'm too much for people. Too sensitive. Too quiet. Too weird. Too awkward. Too intense. Too whatever. Insert adjective here; fill in the blank. There's a quote that says, "You will always be too much of something for someone: too big, too loud, too soft, too edgy. If you round out your edges, you lose your edge. Apologize for mistakes. Apologize for unintentionally hurting someone ---- profusely. But don't apologize for being who you are." I know that I should follow the advice of this quote; I know that I shouldn't apologize for being who I am. But I am sorry for who I am, and I want to apologize ---- profusely ----- to every person in my life, past, present, and future, for being who and how I am. I hate it.

I hate that I'm too sensitive and that I feel everything so deeply. I know, I KNOW that "it is both a blessing and a curse to feel things so very deeply." This quote is actually one of my favorites, and I try to fall back on it whenever I feel like I do now. But more often times than not, I see feeling things so very deeply as a curse rather than a blessing; I see being as sensitive as I am as a curse.

I hate that I'm too quiet and that I can't be like my brothers or my sister. They're talkative and outgoing and have the confidence to hold interesting conversations and make people laugh ----they are the coolest people in the world to me. My older brother in particular is pretty much the funniest person I know; there have been times where I have laughed so hard that I cried because of the stories he's told. I wish I could be like that. I hate that I'm not like that. Why am I so different than my siblings? I hate that I am. In groups of people, I have never been able to capture everyone's attention when telling a story like they can. Maybe it's because I'm better with written words than spoken words, but I just wish that I could be as good at speaking as I am at writing. I hate that I can't be.

I hate that I'm too weird. People always tell me that there's nothing wrong with being weird ---- that "being normal is vastly overrated" (thank you, Halloweentown). I know that everyone is weird in their own way(s), but I feel like everyone else is weird in a good way and that I'm just weird in a bad way. I find the stupidest things funny ---- I laugh at ridiculous puns or nerdy jokes that no one else finds funny, and I feel stupid for it. I feel weird for it. I hate having a weird sense of humor. I hate being weird.

I hate that I'm too awkward. I hate that when I "go out," I have to have a drink (shout out to BudLight/Coors Light/Miller Lite) in my hand because otherwise, I don't know what to do with my hands (Do I keep them by my sides? Do I cross my arms? Do I clasp my hands together?); I also would most likely bite my nails out of nervousness if I wasn't holding something. I hate that while I'm out, I feel the need to be in a corner because I'm too scared to be in the middle of people. I hate that I'm too awkward to try to go up to a person and have a conversation. I hate that when a person does come up and try to talk to me, I'm too awkward to try to hold a conversation. I hate that I quite literally run away (okay, walk quickly away) or at least feel the need to the longer the conversation goes on. I hate being awkward.

I hate that I'm too intense. Someone told me fairly recently that I'm an intense person, and at first I had no idea what that even meant... but then I started to think about it, and I realized that I am intense ---- in everything that I do and in all that I am. I have intense feelings. I have an intense personality and attitude about things; I have an intense view about things --- intense opinions ---- even if I don't always make them known or talk about them. I'm too intense, and I think because of that, people are scared of me. I hate that people are scared of me, scared to talk to me or hang out with me. I hate being an intense person.

People leave my life because of all of these things about me. They don't want to deal with a person who is too much of everything, and they shouldn't have to; I want to apologize to them for dealing with me then and the people who have to deal with me now. I want to apologize for being too much. I'm sorry. Truly and deeply and completely sorry. I'm always told that I say sorry too much and that I shouldn't ---- but there it is: too much. I can't stop saying sorry.

Earlier today, I took my dog (she is my favorite lil' gal) on a really long walk, and we walked past a park that I used to hang out at in high school. As we were walking by, the nostalgia and memories hit me like a truck. I wanted to cry thinking about all the people I used to hang out with at that park ---- all the people I used to talk to and be friends with. I don't talk to any of those people anymore ---- I'm not friends with any of those people anymore ---- and when I do run in to one of them every now and again, my heart hurts; it hurts talking to them, because all of the memories that involve them come flooding back and I feel like I'm drowning.

Losing people is an art, and I am an expert. I wish I wasn't one ---- I wish that I could keep people. I know that this is impossible, because people come and go and only a few ones stay forever. I know I should be okay with the fact that some people in my life were only meant to be in it for a short period of time... but I can't be okay with it, and it's because my inner child clings so desperately on to pinky promises of "best friends forever." I know I'm naive to think that every promise of "best friends forever" will last. But why can't they last? What did I do wrong to make people want to break that promise? What is so wrong with me that people keep leaving?

The obvious answer staring me right in the face is what this entire blog post is about:

I am too much for people, and too much of anything is never ever a good thing.

xoxo,

Mag