I recently met someone very open and intense. He hinted about things in his past that were ugly and dark. We had only talked 5 times total. And I wondered, "Why are you telling me this?" Perhaps I should have been flattered. That he'd trust me with these intimate details about his life.
But mostly, it made me think about how much I keep to myself. My emotions don't fit in a dainty little purse, but a sack as big as the one Santa carries over his shoulder. I probably carry more emotional baggage than the average person. Not because I've had a traumatic childhood or that hard a life but because I've never gotten good at lightening my load.
I am too much of an introvert. An internalizer. Only when asked and even then, I might decline to answer the questioner. Because I didn't want to burden anyone or let them come too close to me. For I remember a dinner I had with a boy. In which he asked about my family. And I answered honestly. And he looked surprised and said that I was surprisingly cheerful considering what I'd been through. I smiled, but I didn't know my history had been so tragic until he had said it.
