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

