Enigmatic?

Last night, amidst conversations of social interactions and openness and how to discern people's trustworthiness, a friend made an interesting observation of me. We had met under rather peculiar circumstances, moving from complete strangers straight into an hour-long conversation about personal matters. She noted that I had seemed rather peculiar that first night, that I was hard to read. I seemed fully engaged in listening, and yet didn't seem to offer much about myself over the course of the conversation.

Another friend of mine once got outright agitated at me while we were discussing politics--not because he disagreed with my opinion, but because I never seemed to offer one of my own. All my responses were further inquiries into his position and what it meant to him.

I'm looking at my photo wall, and I'm seeing another friend of mine with whom I spoke a lot about my Christianity and how it developed. I was always puzzled that he seemed to absorb it all without responding; I usually took peace in assuming he just wanted to sit on what I'd spoken for a few days and reflect. Whatever objections he had, I figured, would come out in the questions he asked; all I had to do was answer them honestly and let the gospel speak for itself.

I've gotten into trouble with family, who sometimes raise the grievance that I keep to myself and don't talk much about what I'm experiencing at college. I similarly get sad because it sometimes feels like I'm always listening and never actually have occasion to talk about what I'm going through. I'm told that I answer things matter-of-factly, leaving no room for deeper, more heartfelt discussions.

I hate this.

Last night I tried to think about what memories I would share if the occasion arose. Disturbingly, all the ones that rose to the top first were the scars, the painful ones, the griefs, the bittersweets. And while I happily share them when they can give strength to others, they just seem too dark and gloomy to share in passing.

I generally consider myself to have led a happy life...one that has been blessed with many wonders. And yet it surprises me that those joys don't seem to boil down into distinct memories...the happy times meld together like a blur, and it's the troubles, the challenges, that are actually punctuated and pronounced.

I can't tell if this is just how the different genders function as they grow older. For so long, I've spoken highly of Lewisian friendships, in which two brethren are drawn together by a common longing in their soul, a common pursuit, some common appreciation that would allow one to point off in the distance at some obscure object and, without saying a word, know that the other will be able to appreciate it in the same manner as oneself. Now, I am forced to take pause and wonder if that's a distinctly male sort of friendship, one that focuses on the now and the tomorrow at the expense of the little details that make up who we are.

In one class, I was asked to engage in a conversation with somebody else while quietly trying to reveal as much about myself as I could. The conversation took on a very different dynamic compared to the usual superficial, barely-brushing-past-the-surface type conversations of the business world. When the class ended, I wished more conversations could be that way. I suppose I'm so used to the status quo nowadays that I don't notice when I'm being guarded, myself.

And yet sharing still doesn't come naturally to me. Engaging in ideas lights me up. Helping others in their times of sorrow opens me up because what I've been through can be a source of strength. But the happy moments...the happy moments seem so odd, so alien, so...vague. Almost as if I don't believe I can convey what joy I felt while going through them, or that they're so deeply hidden that I truly have to work to bring them to mind.

I honestly don't know what to do. Sometimes I suspect I focus so much on the other person and understanding them that I forget I'm a human being and not just a resource to them. Sometimes I wonder if I fall into the trap of thinking I'm not interesting enough to be worth highlighting. Sometimes I think it's a function of coming from such a weird and complicated background...one that has blessed me greatly, but which I would never wish upon another.

My grandfather never spoke much. About the only thing he would say to us was to eat heartily. And he would never let anybody else pay the bill. Treating us was his way of showing love to us. I never learnt anything about his life except through my mom, who, I suppose, only learnt through her mom.

That's not who I want to be.