Something I've Been Meaning to Say

I have a confession to make. It's been rolling around in the back of my head for weeks and I'm finally getting around to putting it down in words for y'all to read. Here it is:

I hate talking on the phone.

Hate it, not just like 'I hate onions in my scrambled eggs', but to the point that I get the shakes and feel desperately uncomfortable. I would rather clean toilets, change smelly diapers, or do just about anything else I can think of than talk on the phone. Except bungee-jumping - that scares me more. A little more.

It occurs to me that many of my friends and family members may have, in the past or at present, thought that it was just them. That I didn't want to talk to them on the phone, that I was avoiding them. That, worst case, I didn't care. It's not at all true. I've looked at the phone, even thought about calling. Then I quickly come up with something else to do so I can avoid it.

I asked Trevor about it, and he says that I've been that way ever since he got to know me. He says that while I've gotten better at impersonal business calls, I haven't changed much in the way of personal calls. Certainly I've been that way as long as I can remember.

If it were just a matter of hating the initial calling, and then enjoying the conversation, I could get over that, force myself to do it anyway. But it lasts the whole time, and I feel so ridiculously fake trying to sound natural and composed while my hands shake, my voice quavers and I restrain myself from running away. So I don't call. I email, I send cards, I try to find thoughtful gifts, I do whatever else I can, but I don't call. And I can't help but wonder how many people have misinterpreted that.

Now, would this post ever have been written if hormones weren't making me rather emotional? I'm not sure. But I do feel relieved for having written it.