An Antisocial Mind

Her hair is long—part down the middle, just passing her breasts. She looks back at me intensely, curious as to what I think of her.

Her eyes are brown—beautiful and almond shaped. But there’s age beyond her years behind those eyes.

Nose crooked. I remember she fell off of the tire swing in front of the lake house. Or was it the X amount of times she fell down the basement stairs. Whatever the case, the crooked nose is the result.

Her lips small, thin and closed—keeping so many unspoken words and secrets behind them.

I can only see her from the waist up, but I can tell by her posture that she’s tensed. On guard. Ready for me to make my move.

I smile at her. She returns it back, but I can tell that it’s forced.

“Hey.”

“Guards up. Guards up. Keep your guards up.”

“No need for that. I’m not here to hurt you.”

“Guards up. Guards up. Keep your guards up.”

“You’ve done it again you know,” I say. “You’ve isolated yourself.”

“Guards up. Guards up. Keep your guards up.”

“Why do you keep doing this?"

Silence.

“You were doing good. Going out. Socializing with people—what happened?”

“Guards up. Guards up. Keep your guards up.”

I sigh. She looks to her left. I follow her gaze. Nothings there.

“Why are you doing this?”

“Guards up. Guards up. Keep—.”

“Your guards up,” I interrupt. “Yeah I know.”

Frustration comes over me. She’s known to do this. Hangs out with people and then all of a sudden goes ghost. No phone calls. No visits. Not even an email. She doesn’t do it on purpose. It’s just something that goes off inside of her that causes her to retreat.

“You’re hurting people’s feelings you know.”

Silence.

“They think that they did something wrong. That you don’t like them anymore or love them even.”

I’ve been trying to help her with this issue, but so far I’ve had no success. She’ll do great at first. Open to the idea of going out and socializing with others. But then something always happens. Something dramatic. Something subtle. And she will always retreat.

“You gotta come out of your shell sometime.”

She doesn’t say anything. She just gives me that curious look of hers. Wondering what I’m thinking. Wondering what I’m going to do next.

She has no problem being alone. She has no problem doing things on her own. In college, she went to all sorts of places by herself. Special events, author readings, poetry slams, plays and even a game or two. She walked to class alone. She shopped alone. She even ate alone. Just her and music. Her and reading. Or her and writing. She’s so comfortable with being alone, but according to society, being alone isn’t healthy.

That’s why I need to help her.

“Why are you like this?”

I know that it is her past that has her this way. She can’t be too trusting of people, not even the ones that are close to her. Everyone has advised her to go out more. To socialize. To live life. And she tries to. She really does, but she always ends up back with herself.

Her hair is long—part down the middle, just passing her breasts. She looks back at me intensely, curious as to what I think of her.

“Guards up. Guards up. Keep your guards up."

“You can’t be guarded all the time.”

“It’s nothing wrong with that,” she finally says.

“This isn’t healthy.”

“Says who? Society? What do they know?” she asks me.

“It isn’t normal.”

“Who cares? Guards up. Guards up. Keep your guards up.”

“Not everyone is out to get you.”

“Experience tells me otherwise.”

“But you’re pushing good people away.”

“Guards up. Guards up. Keep your guards up.”

I sigh. “You’re hopeless.”

“I’m just being me.”

“That’s the problem! You have to change, be normal!” My frustration with her begins to get the best of me.

“But I love being with me, what’s wrong with that?”

“It’s not normal.”

“So I have to be normal for society?” The way she says normal throws me off guard. She says it like she despises it. Doesn’t respect it at all.

I am speechless.

“Tell me something,” she says—much more in control now. “Who’s going to be there when I’m down? When I’m hurt? When I need someone to talk to? Society? Yeah right! Society could care less about me.”

I don’t say anything.

“The people who I’m supposed to be around, suppose to hang out with, they’ll laugh in your face and talk about you behind your back. They’ll be there when you’re up and then kick you when you’re down. And these are the people society wants me to hang out with? This is what I have to do to be normal?”

She starts to make sense to me.

“I think I’m good by myself—I know I’m good by myself.”

I sigh and shake my head. She does too. I look at her. She stares back.

Her hair is long—part down the middle, just passing her breasts. Her eyes are brown—beautiful and almond shaped. Nose crooked—from the time fell off of the tire swing or from the X amount of times she fell down the basement stairs. Her lips small, thin and closed—keeping so many unspoken words and secrets behind them.

“You gotta stop doing this,” I tell myself.

Half of me know that this is true. The other half is comfortable with the fact that I will always end up back with myself.

For as long as I can remember I’ve been having this internal dilemma with myself. A part of me trying to be “normal” and socialize with others, only to retreat to myself again.

As time goes on I become frustrated with myself and towards everyone who says that keeping to myself is “unhealthy.” But being to myself is where I’m comfortable. It’s me.

So to those who I may have offended by my antisocial ways, I apologize.

I have to take this time to give you the cliché “it’s not you, it’s me” speech.

I am antisocial. I prefer to keep to myself than socialize with others. On a few occasions I will venture off with others, but in reality I am much more comfortable with just me and music. Me and reading. Or me and writing. It’s just the way I am because I always have my…

Guards up. Guards up. I keep my guards up.