For quite some years, I took pride in my forte to keep the conversation I had with other people going. Most of the times, I knew what made people keep talking and I knew just the right questions to ask. If my body were narrowed down to one single function, it would be to listen. Similar to a translated book, a significant amount of meaning was lost in the process of both conveyance and reception; I was most definitely not the best person to offer ears, yet it was the only thing I knew best.
Growing up, I might have witnessed abundant small acts of neglect done by people around us who had too much on their plate—or, too much of themselves—to spare a minute in order to pay attention. An accumulation of sagged shoulders and people lowering their voices—their confidence gradually slipped away as they came to awareness that the room they occupied had no space for their voices to linger—was sufficient to make my eyes immediately dart to my lap, pretending to be oblivious.
I am not sure when I started to think that I no longer wanted to pretend to be unaware.
In almost every interaction I have with people around me, there is always a voice at the back of my head telling me, urging me, to ask more. To give an answer that encourages them to elaborate. To hold on to their words and let them know that those are meaningful. To praise. To compliment. To let them know that they are heard. Let them talk. Interrupt only to show my enthusiasm towards their story. Speak about myself only when they ask or I run out of responses. Ask them about their interests. I can never be/sound condescending, only curious.
In communicating, I always try to be genuine and I do not usually fail in doing so. At fifteen, my best friend told me that her brother thought I was good at interacting with older people after meeting her family. From that moment on, I did not plan to be anything less. However, last year, I began to question my capacity as the receiving end of people's stories: something I always took pride in. Even if I was insecure about most stuff in my life, this was never one of them.
"People like answering questions about themselves, she thought; what an odd pleasure it is."
— From "The Haunting of Hill House" by Shirley Jackson
My heart was cracking underneath the weight of my friends' commentaries, one was when they said I was being self-absorbed and the other was about how they felt ignored despite my presence. Nobody has ever told me this before. Ever. I grew up as an angry kid from the neighborhood that I scared one of my peers away with my sharp gaze. My mother reminds me annually of my overly sensitive antics—which is the bane of her existence. My brain-to-mouth filter frequently disappears in time of dire need. I occasionally procrastinate from doing chores, working on my assignments, even replying to my friends' messages. I was, and still am, a lot of foolish and apprehensive things, but I was never called selfish.
The moment those words left their mouths, I could only think of one thing: How do I fix this? And then, I started planning: How could I possibly make more things—all things—about other people from now on? And then: I do not want to become one thing I have always been afraid of becoming.
Around 2016, my parents bought me a motorcycle because I was about to enter high school. During a trip with my mother to Jakarta, we were informed by phone that my brother's vehicle was stolen on the previous night. After multiple attempts of searching for it, the result was unsatisfactory. I did not ask questions when my supposedly motorcycle suddenly became his without any discussions.
Neither did I bat an eye when my mother told me to share room with my cousin if she were to pursue higher education in my city.
I almost missed the opportunity of applying for a scholarship because it cost too much before my mother sat me through her speech. "I would submit the documents myself if you decide to back down now," she said firmly.
What am I, I thought, if I could not be of help for other people?
What am I if I cannot be the least of burden?
My friend constantly tells me that I tend to bottle up my feelings. Personally, I did not think it was true. In fact, I thought I shared too much for my own good. Every time I bump into a prolonged inconvenience, there is at least one of my friends whom I come to to tell about my misery. Even if what my friend said was true at some degree, it was not an unusual disposition to sweat over.
Until I started wondering: Do I poke around people's business because I refuse to talk much about things that matter regarding myself? Or, do I guard my feelings because I am not sure if I have ever been interesting enough for other people?
I do not mind to restrict myself from saying something. I do not mind to appear as lacking of authenticity. My stances are not unwavering, my priorities are rarely straight, and I am naturally inconsistent. I have made peace with the aforementioned shortcomings. I do not have much patience nor well-built composure to resolve conflicts, so I learned to hold on my own by adjusting to each and every person I meet.
Obviously, there are times I find it hard to reply because my personal emotions get in the way. I avoid strife like a plague, sweet-talking my way out of a possible dispute and only offer my voice sporadically. I have a fair share of experience being called out for my sugarcoated words. I would like to think that I am a pacifist, but I really am not, I am simply shrouded by constant fear of everything: making the wrong moves, being loathed, sounding ignorant…not being listened to. It is not a rare occurrence that I stare in awe whenever people take the liberty to speak freely and confidently about their interests, especially if those are something that intersect with mine. Ultimately, I relish in seeing the world I am not in, but I cannot help that there are mortifying, self-deprecating times when I think: Things seem to be more interesting and meaningful when they are not coming from me.
I am crawling and repenting through the desert1 to reach an oasis of people; escaping drought and finally quenching my thirst as I drown myself in the lake of external validation. All I have ever wanted is to be loved—all I have ever said and done is so that I could be deserving of love. Despite all that, this frail and feeble body also wants desperately to become a sanctuary that could provide people with the same compassion and care. Could it?
In the midst of my distress last year, my beloved friend suddenly told me a story which was originally delivered by her professor about his wife. Following the warm story and my friend's words saying that her professor's wife reminded her of me (which rendered me to tears), she added a personal message I will forever carve to my heart: "Even if there were times that you're tired of sharing, of giving, you're still the person we love all the same."
And, by God, it was enough. It was more than enough.
“Wild Geese” by Mary Oliver