Essay Number II

After years of the using the same, meaningless form of chatting with others, I begin to fear that the overall depth of all conversation has grown shallow. I begin to feel like there is no purpose in talking at all anymore.

You say, “Hi. How are you?”

They reply with “Good, how about you?”

And like clockwork you are ready to jump into some long, intricate story about something you have seen or done, slanted horribly with only details that make yourself seem like a genius or a moron- whichever will ultimately give you the most grandeur and the most preferred looks.

“Have you seen any interesting movies lately?” She asks to start a discussion.

“Not really. I haven’t done much of anything, to be honest.” At least I was honest.

“That’s not good.”

“How about you?”

“Yeah, I’ve seen a bunch. I’ve been renting movies like a madman.” It is kind of funny how the conversation began to deter into something a lot more meaningful, but was quickly snatched back to the main focus: her watching movies.

I brought it back to my topic: “I haven’t had the attention span to watch a whole movie, or read a whole book, or watch any TV at all, or do homework...” I trailed off in the way that appears to be deep in thought, and waited for a reply.

“That sucks.”

“…or do a lot of things that are cool,” I made sure to sound like I was dying, “but I tried to tell Coach Bronk,” the guidance counselor, “before Christmas last year that I have been having problems with my attention, and he was like ‘okay... whatever’ and has done nothing, so whatever.”

I am such a drama queen.

“Well what do you think could be done to help it,” She asks emotionlessly, probably still shocked that the easy conversation of before has grown in gravity and now requires actual thought.

“I don’t know,” staring into space, “I am trying, I just don’t think that it’s doing anything. I might get tested for ADHD, but he needs to first approve it at a board meeting and go over all of the evidence and ask every teacher… or some shit. Whatever.” I wasn’t sure exactly what was necessary, so it was an honest answer.

“I’m sorry. ADHD is shitty.” Could you expect her to say anything else?

“Yeah, well whatever. I just want to know so I have one less thing to blame it on. I wouldn’t take pills or anything. I just want to know.”

“Yeah, the pills aren’t really a help either. They just sedate you.” A bit of insight shared, at last.

“Exactly,” I could say nothing but agree.

“The real cure is learning how to control yourself. Think things through. Pay attention. It takes a lot of work.”

“Yes, work that I don’t give a shit about doing. I am getting by, slowly and not very efficiently.” As you can see, I don’t really care about getting better. I care about expression though, “I have been drawing more, writing more, singing and composing more, so I don’t really mind.”

What do I have to express if I’m not suffering? No one gives a shit about happiness.

I have found that all conversations go as follows: a story is told, and then responded to. Unfortunately, we all want to be the story tellers, and are forced to wade through other’s stories until we find time to tell our own.

If I didn’t honestly have something to say, I would have walked away right then. If I didn’t honestly mean every single word I was saying, I would already be gone. But at the same time, if I didn’t talk to her right then, I do now know how I would have sorted things out. Some people we don’t like for people, we talk to because using them keeps us going.

And pointless or not, I needed to talk. Whoever was listening, or just sitting there bored, it didn’t matter, because using words to express something is more defined than feelings. More defined than thoughts even.

Like the distinct lines of pencil laced into drawings, or different pitches strung together into music, words required order. And in that order comes definition. And that definition forms sense, and perhaps in that, the solution.

“Yeah, well just tell me if I can help,” she says, sincerely.

“I don’t know what can be done. I just wish Coach Bronk wasn’t such a shitty guidance counselor.” I said it out of anger, because I was unsatisfied with him, and upset with the situation. It’s easier to blame a guidance counselor.

“Talk to another counselor.”

“No. I have reached out, I shouldn’t have to twice.” I am such a drama queen.

She thought about what to do, but I kept talking. Her suggestions meant little to me, just the conversation itself.

“I just focus my anger and hate into writing. Into the piano keys. Into the blank pages, with staves or lines or blank space where I can compose anything that I want to see. Where I can write until I have no voice anymore, and can just sit, drained, and sleep, with scribbles at my fingers of thoughts and ideas.”

“Yeah,” she said, and the conversation was over. This had out-weighed the movies by far. Although it shouldn’t be a conversation, it always was. People need to speak and need to be heard, more than they need to listen or respond. It helps, having a tangible definition of your abstract thoughts. It helps to know that you are thinking something.

You sleep a little easier after a day when you say all that you needed to say, but not much differently after a day when you heard someone else talk about what they needed to say. Sure, there are exceptions, such as the deep connections of the ones we love, some people we like for people, and we talk because they keep us going, but overall it’s our own voice that makes us humans, not so much our ears. Our ability to speak, write, sing, draw, or do anything just to find out what we are.

A little bit later I added, to fill the silence, “I'm on my third 23.5 oz can of tea, and I have 8 gallons in my fridge. I pee constantly, but it’s better than doing nothing. I guess.” I meant it lightly.

“Wow.”

“What?” I asked.

“That’s alotta tea.”