I Thought Everyone Meant What They Said

You were not being difficult, you were following rules that you had assumed everyone was following.

You assumed others wanted the same.

For most of your life, you operated on a set of principles about how people treat each other, and you never once thought they were unusual, until reality painfully taught you otherwise. You only found out they were different through repeated conflicts, where people always blamed your personality, calling you ‘too much’, ‘too pedantic’, ‘too sensitive’.

When there is a conflict, your default mode is to talk it out immediately so people know where you stand, and you assumed others wanted that too. When someone stops talking to you for days and ‘takes their space’, you feel confused and a little rejected. You assumed no one liked the silent treatment.

When people ask how you are, you tell them the truth, including the not-so-nice bits. You did not want to be invisible when you were in pain, and you thought that when people asked, they wanted to know. What is the point otherwise?

You ask real questions because you want actual conversation, and you see no point in talking about the weather. You assumed others wanted the same.

When you are upset, you state it plainly as a fact so the problem can be solved, but other people hear it as a complaint. You say what is wrong because naming it is the first step to fixing it. You are asking for help, for collaboration, but they say you are demanding.

When someone says one thing and does another, you cannot help but point it out. To you, stating a logical contradiction is not an accusation. You only want to understand why they did it, and instead they get defensive, as though you were trying to catch them out.

When you are interested in a subject, you talk about it extensively. You think intensity about a subject is enthusiasm and that you are both having fun, so you go deep and fast and assume the other person is enjoying the ride, and you notice their blank stare or empty nod only too late.

You are quite happy to change your mind when someone makes a good argument. In fact, you enjoy a good debate. You assumed others wanted the same. But they seem to withdraw whenever the temperature rises.

Then there are the people who will not change their minds no matter what you bring to the table. You did not realise that for them it was never about reasons at all. They want you to agree with them, and that really is it.

You appreciate being corrected because you want accurate information. You would rather find out now than make a mistake down the line. You had assumed others wanted the same, so you correct errors without cushioning, and you are surprised each time when the room seems to go frozen as you speak.

You take agreements and promises seriously. You build your plans around them, only to discover later that someone’s “yes” was just them being polite, and that there is a hidden code that everyone else understands except you. You are alone in your disappointment when something you thought was happening does not.

All your early life, you thought everyone was similar, and that they wanted what you wanted. Only through repeated painful experience, of being accused, name-called, alienated, or quietly withdrawn from without anyone saying why, did you realise how wide the gap was between how you saw things and what everyone else had already agreed on without ever saying it out loud.

The realisation that you are an outlier happened slowly. You told the truth, and people got upset. You pointed out a contradiction, and they called you difficult. You answered a question about your well-being, and watched people try to end the conversation. You corrected an error, and they acted like you attacked them. They called you too intense, too blunt, too much, too serious, or too sensitive.

So, you learned to adapt to fit in. You ignored contradictions, said you were fine, let errors go, and kept your honest thoughts to yourself. You got so good, so high-functioning at it that people describe you as ‘nice’. Or, you fade quietly into the background, and no one gets to see the raw, unedited you anymore.

You ‘fit in’ now. Maybe.

But at what cost?

Because you decided your instincts were wrong, you no longer trust your own perception. You notice a contradiction and immediately wonder if you are allowed to notice it. You feel hurt and wonder if your feelings are justified. You treat your own thoughts as a personal defect, which keeps you quiet even around people who might actually welcome your directness. Even if your tribe exists, you never get to find that out anymore.

None of this means the way you are is wrong. 

You want things that are worth wanting: truth, open communication, epistemic humility, curiosity and the quest for fairness. You want people to say what they mean, and to rebel against injustice and bureaucracy when they have good reason to, and to point out hypocrisy instead of leaving all of it to you. Those are good things to want. The problem was never that you wanted them. The problem was that you assumed everyone else did too.

You are also not the only one. Some people talk the way you talk, who would be relieved rather than offended if you pointed out the contradiction, who ask how you are because they actually want to know. You have probably met a few of them already, though perhaps neither of you recognised the other, because you were both masking to get through the day.

You do not have to give everyone the raw version of you; in fact, not everyone deserves that. 

But you could start by trusting yourself again. When you see the contradiction, let yourself see it, even if you say nothing. When you feel hurt, let it be real, even if you never bring it up. Your instincts were never the problem. You just did not know that your common sense was not common, and nobody told you. 

Once you can see the gap for what it is, you can stop treating yourself as the thing that needs fixing, and you do not need everyone around you to agree before you are allowed to do that.

The most terrible loneliness is not the kind that comes from being alone, but the kind that comes from being misunderstood; the loneliness of standing in a crowded room, surrounded by people who do not see you, who do not hear you, who do not know the true essence of who you are. And in that loneliness, you feel as though you are fading, disappearing into the background, until you are nothing more than a ghost, a shadow of your former self. — George Orwell