why it's good to be an outsider

i’m sitting here at my laptop, and it occurs to me that i know an extraordinary amount about people i do not truly know. i know about their children, their schools, their husbands, their losses. i know their favorite colors, their grocery store preferences, the time they cheated, the time they were cheated on. i know what kind of dog they want when they move out of the apartment they can’t afford. i know the names of their parents.

they know nothing about me.

and perhaps that is a failing on my part.

but i never asked. i never prompted. they tell me these things because the silence makes them nervous. people fill silence the way they fill shopping carts: compulsively, with items they didn’t mean to pick up. i become the receptacle. it’s easy. i nod. i don’t interrupt. i should consider the priesthood.

still, there’s comfort in being unknown. really, there is. when no one’s looking at you, you’re free to wear the wrong shoes. you can disappear into the room, not because you aren’t there, but because people have already decided you’re not worth watching. 

so if they hate you, they don’t hate you. not really. they hate the idea of you. the parts they’ve pieced together from half-comments, one-liners, body language. a patchwork of someone they needed you to be. you become a screen for projection. something they can name, dismiss, resent. not a person — a placeholder.

that’s the logic of it. it’s not about you.

they see you and imagine everything you must think of them. and when you say nothing, that silence becomes indictment. they begin to hate the silence. they begin to hate you for it.

people do not want reflection. they want reassurance.

when they talk about you behind your back (and they will) that’s how you know they’re still trying to solve you. they criticize your posture, your tone, the relationship you ended too quickly or the one you stayed in too long. they do this hoping you’ll respond. they want a crack in the glass. they want an explanation.

but if they really hate you, you’ll never hear about it. you’ll get the birthday card. the comment about your hair. the exaggerated interest in what you did this past weekend. the praise that doesn’t quite fit. you’re so confident, said with a particular inflection that suggests the opposite.

this is the trade-off. you become an outsider, and in doing so, you begin to see things clearly. not just what people say, but what they avoid. not just the laugh, but the pause that comes before it. you begin to learn that true contempt is quiet. it doesn’t announce itself. it waits.

and you stop needing to explain yourself. because you understand: whatever they’re reacting to, it isn’t you.

it’s them. always.

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