Everyone around me gets the privilege of recalling & telling childhood memories – except for me. Everyone reminisces about the stuff that made them who they are – except, I can’t.
I’m sorry they won’t allow me to share my stuff. It made me who I am – except, I can’t share that part. They won’t let me.
I don’t mind if you know me. I’m willing to reveal all of who I am. Can I please tell you my story so that you may understand me better?
Nope, they don’t want to hear. I’m not shunned but I’m looked at as, “I feel bad for you, but we don’t want to hear your story.”
Why? I listen to your stories all the days long. Time and time again, I hear about the past from everyone around me, except – they don’t want me to tell a story at the table. They get to, but I do not.
I’m sorry they don’t have the courage to listen to my stories. I have good stories, too. I feel bad they won’t take the time to know the other parts of life. The parts of life that we all have – in some way.
I’m sorry that you won’t take the time to learn who I am. I’m not only terrifyingly hard to listen to, I’m kind, I’m considerate and. . . .
I listen to you.
Do you know that sometimes your stories bore me? Do you know that your canned phrases of “I really did have a good childhood” are exaggerated?
Do you know that I know how to tell the truth better than you do?
Do you know that I care to listen to you? Do you care to hear me?
In God we trust. We under the same sky we breathe. Why can’t I tell you who I am? I listen to you.