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Illustration by Marley Allen-Ash
Where did my neediness come from? The one that required that I insert myself into every discussion, and turn the topic from one that lent itself to a two-way conversation to a platform for my opinions.
For much of my life, I wanted to contribute to conversations so much that I did not listen. Instead, I looked for pauses, maybe even a slight inhale. I would find any way to give my take on everything, and explain how I accomplished whatever, wherever and however. I would not hesitate to direct attention to myself.
It is a funny thing about advice. If unasked for, it is not wanted. Yet there I was, full of excellent and stimulating information. I would talk about a friend of a friend, a relative who did just that, or a parent who did it this way. It did not even necessarily have to have anything to do with me. It was enough just to say I had read the most informative article ever about that subject on Google. Five stars! Wasn’t I clever to have found it, read it and remembered it? Now I could pass the details on.
I seldom let anyone else experience the ebb and flow of discussion if I was speaking. Somehow, I always had a solution, a piece of advice or an idea. I was so busy trying to validate myself that the hero of every story was me.
In the fictional TV series The Crown, when Prince Charles told the Queen that he wanted her to realize he had opinions and a voice, she said: “Let me let you into a secret, no one wants to hear it!”
There was no one to keep me in check. I remained convinced that everyone wanted to hear the latest updates about everything I thought and did.
I had an unstoppable need to share. I found it lonely inside my head with scintillating questions and pithy answers and so much to say. The very next conversation was always the perfect venue to offer words of wisdom, signs of the times, harbingers or predictors of the future. Sharing is caring. But “share” only works on social media. I thought everyone should want to hear about everything I found fascinating, and I would find ways to pass it on whenever I could.
Guess what happens when a person like me is conversing on the phone?
Suddenly the person I am talking with has to let me go. Suddenly they have an urgent call or someone is at the door. They cannot talk right now.
As a conversation hijacker, I noticed that – in person – my fellow conversationalists began to weary. When they cannot get feedback on the actual topic under discussion because I have steamrolled the discussion it was annoying. And so, the conversation hijacker begins to get left out of important get-togethers and meetings. And if she does turn up and open her mouth, eyes roll back into people’s heads.
Then one day, not even that long ago, the light went on and I heard myself.
I noticed that I was not present, but that I was thinking, thinking about the next interjection I could make. For sure I was not listening except to make note of opportunity, such as a pause in the conversation.
After the light came on. I took to closing my mouth before speaking, analyzing each contribution I wanted to make. Did the person I was talking with need that information and want it? If the conversation could get along without it, I did not offer it up. It was not easy to stop. Teeth were clenched. Nails were gnawed. Heroes battled evil.
Suddenly there were so many pieces of information I left on the backburner. No one missed them. It forced me to listen better, harder and in a more direct way. When I made a point of letting other people speak, I found people sought me out more. They wanted to talk. They wanted to feel heard. They wanted to hear, and even asked, “Tell me more.”
Valerie Kent lives in Cavan, Ont.