T
here’s self-control and then there’s self-indulgence.
I’ve always struggled to find a balance between the
two. In almost every aspect of my fledgling life it has
seemed like I have no control over my actions. Impulse and
gut reactions characterize the majority of what I do, and
this fundamental flaw is most evident in my speech. As a
result, I have turned a singular question over and over again
in my mind for years as it has slowly eaten away at the thin
line between control and indulgence: Why do I keep talking
when all I want to do is shut up?
I wish I could put it more delicately, but alas I must be
blunt. This tendency of mine applies to conversation, writ-
ing, even my laughter. I consistently overshare on certain
aspects of my life while offering little to no information
about others, and more often than not I
find myself digressing on topics that need
not be addressed. The talking character-
izes times of discomfort and anxiety and,
sadly, has become a trait with which peo-
ple identify me. Although I may suffer
from periods of silent self-examination, I
find myself unable to suppress this deeply
ingrained urge to speak. I berate myself
afterward, knowing I should have kept to
myself, but nonetheless the cycle contin-
ues.
There was an ongoing joke in my
childhood that fell somewhere along the
lines of “Natalie’s stories are the worst.”
Harsh, yes, but true. I could not differ-
entiate between what would intrigue
people and what only intrigued me. As
a child, it all blended together, and thus
poor victims would be stuck in the abyss
of my storytelling, forced to await an
ending that never came. For those wish-
ing to spare my feelings, there was no
merciful death.
I always was a talker, and my parents
were the only ones that could shut me up.
This rejection that I faced at home made
me search for eager ears in the faces
of strangers. Those poor adults did not
know that their blind politeness would
be their downfall. Like me, they probably learned their “yes
pleases” and “no thank yous” at a young age. Unlike me, they
did not use this lesson in human decency as a way of trick-
ing people into listening to a tale that lacked tears and never
triumphed. I engaged anyone, anywhere. My unsuccessful
soccer career can be credited to the rule-abiding referees
that would humor me. Instead of chasing after the ball like
a normal, goal-oriented child, I would stand by the referee,
chatting with him about the stunning weather at the indoor
soccer field. Swimming followed a similar course, as there
is recorded footage of me standing on a swim block in the
middle of a race enthusiastically talking to the timer as he
tries to focus on both my precariously positioned body and
the swimmer in the lane before me.
Sadly, I haven’t grown far from my childhood ways, and
my youthful faux pas continue to be relevant to my current
storytelling abilities. Although I have thankfully improved
my vocabulary and grown more reliable in my testimonies,
I can’t seem to find the appropriate filter that distinguish-
es between the fascinating and the mundane. Surely it’s
a subjective matter, but that does not excuse the multiple
times I’ve been interrupted simply because my story was
dull. There remains this small issue of me regarding every
audience as wholly invested in my every word, and in this
regard, narcissism is considered one of my most flattering
traits. I’ve started to recognize the face of a disinterested
listener, and when I do, I immediately begin floundering for
help to avoid drowning in my own abyss. Not until recently,
however, has this problem caused me a great deal of anxiety.
Oversharing is a deeply ingrained fear of mine, a potential
consequence of my upbringing.
Age 15 and brimming with unease, I approach my dad
with a proposition: As a reward for my good grades, I want
to dye my hair. Keeping the situation purely hypothetical,
I explain to him how this change would be temporary and
wouldn’t affect my good character or steer me down the
emo path I had narrowly avoided in my youth. Not missing
a beat, he counters with a new and improved hypothetical
situation.
“How about instead, you draw a metaphorical teal line
down the center of your face, and it can be special, because
nobody except you will know it exists.”
Message received. I’m a Zak, and Zaks are inherently
private people; we don’t ask for undesired attention, and we
don’t place ourselves in that unforgivable center. I couldn’t
dye my hair because that’s exactly the kind of edgy state-
ment I was supposed to desperately avoid making.
Three years later, this teal line still inches down the cen-
ter of my face as a reminder whenever I find myself on the
brink of oversharing. I can no longer differentiate between
news that is worthy of sharing and news that should be kept
to myself. I can ensure though that I’ll feel guilty no matter
what the decision. Specific people must be approached with
specific topics in mind, or else our conversation will slowly
descend into me drawing out tangents and reemphasizing
punch lines as I await an enthusiastic response that never
comes.
Humans are struck with the need to share not because
we’re egotistical, which is what I’m naturally inclined to
believe, but because it’s ingrained in our nature. In psychol-
ogy, self-concept describes how human beings are made up
of three schemas: self-esteem, self-knowledge and the social
self. These schemas are almost entirely defined by our inter-
actions with others — how we estimate our self-worth based
on how our quirks and tendencies are perceived. I have no
reason to fear oversharing or divulging precious informa-
tion, for it is simply human nature. Knowing this does not
make the burden of anxiety any lighter, but knowing I’m not
alone in my fears does.
We also evaluate ourselves based on how people react to
our words, appearance, hand gestures, eyebrow raises —
and maybe that’s why I find myself still talking as the anxi-
ety continues to rise. I feel the need to correct the verbal
missteps and untie the social tongue twisters that I trip over
day after day. Word vomit plagues
me, and I suffer from an almost
critical case. It claims the strongest
among us, but like all fits of nausea,
can be appeased by a monitored
diet of saltines and ginger ale.
Unlike nausea though, the anxi-
ety isn’t fooled by offerings of
carbonated beverages and wheat.
Instead, it simply extends to sanc-
tuaries like the classroom. When
conversation in a room dwindles
and awkward silence begins to
settle in, I take it upon myself to
relieve everyone of it. Screw dig-
nity, pride and a general feeling
of self-worth; I will throw myself
into the lion’s den, take a bullet
for surrounding contenders and
toss myself under the bus simply to
resolve these intolerable silences.
The teacher will pose a question
only to be met with acknowledged
silence, and I settle into my accus-
tomed biblical role. Nailing my
hands and feet into the bark, I
prepare my spirit, open my mouth
and immediately black out. What
occurs in the next few minutes is
a mystery to me, not because I’m
baffled by my ability to compose complex statements, but
because I genuinely suffer from a temporary lapse in mem-
ory. I liken it to a “Memento”-type situation, except nothing
was murdered, other than the written word of intellectuals
that came before me.
A wise, fictional fool by the name of Michael Scott once
said, “Sometimes I start a sentence and I don’t know where
it’s going. I just hope I find it along the way.” I often find
myself relating to the words of this fictional fool, both in my
writing and when I talk. The sentences I construct are built
in lieu of the self-concept, constantly being reformed and
torn apart by the reactions I perceive from those around me.
I may never know where I’m going with it or how it will end,
but I can be sure that it will end at some point. And that’s all
that matters. As individuals we communicate through more
than just our words; looking past the inane lava spilling
forth from our mouths, it’s the actions, facial expressions
and silence that describe us best. Looking in the mirror
now, the teal line is beginning to resemble a scar, but not
one that I’m forced to bear in reality, only hypothetically,
and that makes all the difference.
Wednesday, February 17, 2016 // The Statement
6B
What We Talk About When No One Is Listening
by Natalie Zak, Daily Arts Writer
ILLUSTRATION BY EMILIE FARRUGIA