Today, I watched my own body pull away from itself. I don't know how to explain it other than to say that I realized I did not want to be touched, did not want to be looked over, did not want to be engaged by anybody else sharing the Metro platform with me for the simple reason that I couldn't be bothered. My shoulders sagged inward under the weight of the public's gaze, and my limbs folded in. My legs crossed themselves. I felt tight, mean, small.
It came to me that, by refusing to engage the people around me other than when I feel like it, I am molding a spirit that sends a very clear signal: "You are not welcome to talk to me." I'd always wondered how the old woman waiting for the 66 at 7:37 every morning got so bitter. I suppose I always assumed it was rotten luck, a bad divorce, mental illness, a lack of hope, a sense of entitlement coupled with a lack of payout. Today, I looked down at my body, twisted in on itself. I saw the distance I was creating between me and the man sitting next to me. It struck me that bitterness doesn't come at once. It doesn't descend upon us from a single tragedy. It is the result, years in the making, of a series of small decisions in which we choose not to see the other, choose not to have the awkward but necessary conversation, choose to remain alone. And I, who covet privacy even above friendship, was (and am) in danger of walking that road.
I need to be held accountable. I need to open.
