I Thought I Was Being Rude

I can be a really high-energy person. I can be really social. I can make conversation with all types of people, genuinely care about their life and job and pets, and share fun related anecdotes. I can laugh and learn and make new friends.

I can be this way—but I am not always this way. I cannot always be this way.

When I was younger, I think I could be. Age 2–18 was one long streak of social butterfly-ing broken up by a few bouts of preteen and teen depression. For the most part, I was comfortable and confident in my own skin. I had a lot of social energy, and enough outlets for it. This is the version of me that you met and got used to if you met me when I was age 2–18.

I am no longer that way, and it's really difficult to reconcile.

For the past few years, I've struggled with depression, and maybe that's it. Maybe I just don't have the hormonal composition to be Miss Life of the Party as often. Maybe it's something else. But the why isn't the point of this post. This post is about when I learned that there is apparently a difference between "being rude" and "having lower energy."

Sometimes when I have an evening to myself, it's great. I make the dinner Gabe doesn't like and watch my own shows. But more often, I get really down and dark and it's a good idea for me to get out and do something, see people. It was armed with this knowledge that I went to a late afternoon social function full of people who met me when I was age 2–18.

I was not doing well that day. I was in the middle of my Anti-Shoulding campaign, and this event was kind of riding the line. I went mostly because I thought I should, even if it was because I thought I should get out and do something, see people.

But I wasn't doing well. I didn't have the emotional energy to show up like I normally would. I didn't have the energy to initiate or even prolong conversations. I didn't have the energy to smile with my eyes or relate to people in an engaging, appropriate (I thought) way. I felt like a ghost of myself haunting the event and everyone could see through me.

I was being rude. I was bringing down the energy of the group. People were judging me and wondering what was wrong with me. They were probably thinking to themselves that I used to be so cool; what had happened to me? Who or what had sucked the soul out of my body? Maybe I had peaked in high school, or at the very least, something must be terribly wrong?

When I left the function, I blared music on the drive home and screamed and cried. I felt like I was utterly losing my mind—my identity, even. Who the hell was I if I wasn't who I used to be? Someone worse, that was for sure.

At the time, I had no further thoughts or revelations. I did feel better after the music and the screaming and the crying, and I managed to turn the lonely evening around, which I'm really proud of. But since then, I have had two revelations.

One revelation was brought to me by my therapist when she asked a lot of probing questions about the event when I tried to gloss over it. How dare she see through my façade and want to dig into my despair.

I described my experience at the event and told her that I didn't know what was wrong with me and that I didn't know why I hadn't been able to avoid being so rude. She asked me what I had done that was so rude.

"Well, I—I didn't make a lot of conversation," I said. "I wasn't the super energetic, social self that these people know and love and expect."

She kind of cocked her head. "Okay. That doesn't sound rude."

And this was a new branch of thought for me. Maybe being lower energy isn't rude. It isn't as though I actually scowled or avoided eye contact or refused to speak to people. Basically I was just quieter. Not being the life of the party isn't being rude, even if it's a deviation from what (I think) I've constructed as the norm.

The second revelation is all my own: I was bringing down the energy of the group? They were probably thinking to themselves that I used to be so cool; what had happened to me? Maybe they were not thinking about me like that at all. Maybe I was thinking too damn much of myself when, in fact, no one cares that much and I do not have that kind of control over the atmosphere of a group. Maybe I need to get a grip.

Either way, it's some good stuff to think about. Some days I have the energy to be ~Social~ and some days I don't. I can be polite on either day. I do not need to feel guilty for taking a backseat or a supporting role at a social gathering. Sometimes simply showing up is okay.

I'm tentatively trying to believe this and notice it in action. A few weeks ago in dance class, I felt myself Trying To Be Social and pressuring myself to respond with emotion to everything said by someone in the group, even when it wasn't addressed to me specifically. I did not have the emotional energy to be that way that day, but I was forcing myself to try anyway.

Then I remembered that I don't have to do that, and I stopped. I settled for making eye contact and smiling and not forcing myself to say anything or contribute further.

And that was enough. No one was angry. The vibes were unharmed.

And that was big for me.

~Stephanie

The Year Where Nothing Happened

Twenty twenty-three was a weird year to define. It was a year where people would ask, "So what's new with you guys?" and we wouldn't have anything to say. Nothing was new. Except...

Things were fundamentally changing, and I mean that literally-metaphorically :) Things were changing at the foundation, at the core, deep—where no one could see it.

We had zero visible life changes in 2023. We didn't move. We didn't change churches. We didn't get new jobs. No family members were born. I didn't finish the Fire Faery Story Book 1. We didn't even do a Random Roadtrip. We didn't do anything in 2023.

Normally a realization like this would fill me with frustration and discouragement. What a waste of 365 days. Nothing happened.

But that's not how I feel at all.

Twenty twenty-three was a year of readying, and I know that. I feel that. We may not have done much, but we became; we changed.

I started therapy.
I started saying "I'm not lazy, that just isn't within my boundaries right now."
I read some non-fiction books for fun—and actually enjoyed it.
I re-established the habit of going to the gym.
I learned the importance of validating kids' emotions first, before following up with my version of reality.
I uncovered the toxicity of my level of "shoulding."
I began to couch my work communication in fewer "maybes" and "I thinks" and "justs."
I learned that there's a difference between "being rude" and just having lower energy.
I learned that there's more to tracking my cycle than predicting ovulation and periods.
I discovered that I can write something other than the Fire Faery Trilogy.
I started trying to believe that other people are doing their best.
I started giving Gabe the benefit of the doubt instead of reacting in conversation.
I started coming to Gabe to say, "Can you talk about this feeling with me?"
I became more comfortable trying to learn things that I should've known already.
Gabe and I both began working to be less codependent.

And that's mostly just me. Gabe would have his own list, just as long.

There wasn't a lot to take pictures of in 2023, but damn, a lot changed.

In the language of "ready, aim, fire,"* last year was a year of readying. We were actively preparing to be the people we will be in 2024.

I don't know what will happen in 2024, but I know we'll be better prepared for it, and I am fully satisfied with that.

~Stephanie

* Hence the photo :)