One to Quiet Many

I have been very open about how my brain operates - the fact it goes eighty thousand miles a minute; every thought jumbles together; and the voices that all sound like me, constantly speaking every. single. thought. All of the time, the noise doesn’t stop. If you want a mental picture of what it’s like, imagine a roomful of people - hundreds of people - each one yelling on the phone and to each other, with a death metal rock band playing their music in the background - but at full blast. Throw in a few sirens in there and you have what goes on in my head every single day. I honestly can’t tell you when I noticed my brain was a cacophony of voices, but it’s been like this for as long as I can remember. The one time I mentioned it to my father, he dismissed me and said never to speak of it again - probably because he was worried I had schizophrenia like his brother had. I’m not worried about having schizophrenia much - none of my voices are telling me to hurt anyone or myself. They are all just shouting to be heard; kinda like 14 kindergarten classes wanting the one teacher’s attention.

It’s exhausting constantly performing triage with every. single. thought. It’s caused many an argument, and many times got me into a lot of trouble. Music helps drown it out some and talking to myself helps me keep my focus, but nothing had ever quieted my mind.

Then, one Michigan autumn day, I met Jen Fer-Fer at the beginning of the new school year. We were like souls - both misunderstood by those around us; weird, strange “girls-that-weren’t-quite-girls.” We were both outcasts, essentially; neither of us belonging to a “click,” but able to converse in between the “clicks” without too much trouble. We were wall-flowers - neither of us liking the limelight…no, we both hated the limelight and the attention that brought on our introverted heads. We both had the same warped, dark sense of humor. We delighted in the same things - both of us were avid readers (although Jen was much smarter than I). We also came from less than stellar homes. As our friendship grew, I noticed my voices weren’t as loud. They faded into the background, like the roaring wind dying down into a gentle breeze. The cockeyed way I saw things had become more clear - there was no way I was going to be able to parachute off of the roof of the house with a sheet. In a way, my world, which had always been ruled by chaos, became orderly and centered. I hadn’t noticed that until recently. I enjoyed every minute we spent together in school, at my house, at her house. SHE was the person I would rather spend time with over anyone else. Jen Fer-Fer was…no, IS more than my high school best friend.

She is “my person.” The one I went to when I had a problem, the one I vented my frustration to, the one that gave the greatest piece of advice exactly when I needed and how I needed to hear it. The one in which I confided all of my dreams and fears. The one who would be honest with me if a dress made me look like a frigging hot air balloon (I swear, I’m burning those Homecoming pictures and never buying a dress without her advice again). Lol, she’s the person who would give my homemade Valentine’s Day card to my crush because I was too chicken to do it myself. Yep, Jen Fer-Fer is “my person.”

Now, before y’all get dumb, let me tell you, I am weird. When I say someone is “my person,” that most certainly doesn’t mean I’m gonna have sex with them, or marry them, or whatever. “My person,” to me, simply means the individual is the one I want to spend time with. Me. A person who dislikes being around other people wanting to spend time with another person.

Let that marinate for a second… I don’t like people. People exhaust me. Their vibes tend to stick to me and if they’re having a bad day, then my day goes downhill. Even when I try to shake it off, it sticks like a smelly fart in a bathroom with no exhaust fan - don’t ask how I know that. Working in retail gave me puh-lenty of reasons not to like people in general, so when there’s one I prefer to be around, that’s “my person.” Whether it’s reciprocated or not, “my person” isn’t exhausting to me; their vibe doesn’t stick on me and make my day worse. When I see or hear from “my person,” even just for a minute, my day always seems better and brighter.

And it never goes away. I hadn’t seen, nor spoken to Jen Fer-Fer for years until we found each other on Facebook. The messaging back and forth catching up on the years we had missed from each others’ lives was just like when we were in high school writing notes to one another. My late husband always remarked that I was in a better mood whenever I got a message from her - or when she caught his “pun disease” and posted god-awful dad jokes on my timeline. When I visited her on the way back home from West Virginia, I was kind of nervous that she wasn’t “my person” anymore.

I don’t know why I worried about it - Jen Fer-Fer and I were still thick as thieves in my mind. I didn’t want to leave when I had to (stupid job). I wanted to hang out with her; make sure her hubby is indeed the man she should be with (as is a high school best friend’s job to ensure the heart of bestie is not broken). She is still “my person.”

But she’s not the only one I have. I have one other. Actually, he was the one who had got me thinking about the phrase, “my person.” He was venting about how he didn’t like people when I joked, “What about me?” He said, “You don’t count as people. You’re my person.” Y’all, my soul was touched when he said that. No one had ever called me “my person” - they called me plenty of other things (some not flattering), but never “my person.” I said as much to him and said, “I call them “my center.” I don’t have too many, but they always seem to make my world less lopsided. You’re the second one.” Oh, yeah, we had a GREAT night that night.

I still feel the same way about him. My day feels brighter when I see him, my soul feels a touch lighter (though still confused - I think I’m to be cursed with a confused soul for the rest of my life). Whether he feels the same about me, I don’t know. Like I said, my feeling towards “my person” doesn’t diminish; it doesn’t fade. And if it’s not reciprocated, that’s fine - as I’ve said, I’m not everyone’s cup of tea; but, they’ll always be “my person.”

SO! If you have someone that makes you feel like your chaos quiets, and you would rather be with them than your own family, tell them they’re your “my person” and tell them why - for whatever reason that makes the individual your person. And speak it from your damned heart! Don’t just tell it to someone to get laid - for fuck’s sake as if THAT hasn’t been done before…