"Useful information, as always," he says in a sarcastic tone.
I'm still for a moment, stunned as I turn the words over again. Despite reviewing, the examination still reveals the sarcasm where he implies that no information I give is useful.
My body moves from its shocked state to burn hot for a brief moment, before I turn and leave the room. In silence, the heat leaves quickly, and I feel very cold. Cold and lonely. I theorize that the reason being told that my information is frequently useless is because I take pride in being able to help others with the information I have collected. I have few skills and many difficulties. So this dismissal, however albeit unintentional, hits close to my insecurities of being unable to communicate and feeling ever, ever throughout my life so useless.
I return to the room and tell him his words hurt me. In my head I repeat the question, "Why would you say that?" Yet I already know the answer. Logically, I know he said them because he is frustrated. This makes sense to me, because I had already known he had a day that frustrated him, and the topic we had been discussing compounded frustration.
He tells me that I too often state the obvious. That my comments are too often needless. That the information is too often already known. He tells me he didn't mean to hurt my feelings, that he was overexagerating, and that I take things too literally. He reasserts this by repeating the series of informational exchanges we had just gone through before he said it.
I leave again quietly, and retreat to the couch to consider the interaction.
He follows me out. I tell him I need some time to myself to think and write. He continues to explain himself.
I think about how often he repeats himself. How often he rehashes things he had already told me, and how often I am confused by the repetition which proves unhelpful to me. Perhaps it is the same. My attempts to pass on information he finds useless and his attempts to remind me of what had just been said.
I tell him I need some time to myself to think and write. He continues to reexplain himself. My panic grows as he continues to speak. I stare blankly, my heart racing faster and faster. His words blur into the background and my vision blurs from the building panic. I rise and leave the room. I know he will try to follow me no matter where I go. I know he will not give me time to process. I know he is the type who feels he must solve a dispute immediately. I remember how many times I've tried to explain that I need time to process things when I am hurt, and that I feel cornered and lash out if I am unable to get away to do so.
I head into the washroom and lock the door behind me. I slide to the floor in the dark. The panic begins to subside. My body begins to relax. I concentrate on my breathing to slow its rate and that of my heart.
He stops outside the door and demands I come out. He tells me I can go back to the couch. I wonder if he needs to use the washroom, so I ask him why he insists. He answers, "Because." I wait for him to finish his thought. The silence stretches on, ominous. Unsettled, I ask, "Is there an end to that sentence?" His voice sounds irritated when he replies, "Because it's weird."
While in my irritatation, I return to the couch and try to finish organizing my thoughts over the increasingly compounded situation. After another short time he returns again to apologize and ask if I still want to watch the movie he spent time setting up for us. My mouth opens to reply, and I hold in the urge to cry. Again I have trouble finding a way to explain in a way that he will understand and accept so that he will listen to me and recognize my need to process information.
I explain that my processing power is limited to individual strands of information at a time. That I need to process one before I can begin the next task. That when he brings me more words to process, my queue becomes tangled, my mind unstable, as I lose the ability to grasp or remember any of the topics discussed. I desperately try to write down what is being said as he says it in the hope that I can reread it later and resort my queue.
I hear him apologize. I wonder what that means, and whether it is toward the comment or his reaction to my attempts at leaving the conversation over and over again. He clarifies that he refers to his overexageration. He mentions how I get caught in negativity, and I remember how many times I have been told throughout my life that I am overreacting. Coldly, I analyze how often such situations are the results of culmination of panic over being unable to process things I find difficult.
He reminds me that I often say whatever is on my mind without considering whether it hurts others. He mentions that I have told him I give thought to all my words, and yet say hurtful things. He again apologizes for what he said, and again asks if I am coming, or if he should take me home. I try to find a response. Any response that will give me time to finish and meet my own needs. I tell him five minutes.
