I didn’t mean to say so much. I really didn’t. But it was a really interesting thing you just said. And when I heard it, it brought up a whole flood of memories, a host of associations — some direct, some of them quite tangential.
And I got excited when you said that. I started typing. And continued typing. Twelve messages later, I’m staring at the screen full of regret.
Why did I say so much? It just came out. It didn’t seem like that much at all until it was all out there. And then it became clear I’d sent far too much.
But now it’s all out there. I can’t unsend it.
“Well,” I tell myself, “this is the end. You’ve annoyed this cool person with your unfiltered word vomit. It was nice being their friend while it lasted.”
And I believe it. I don’t like the way it feels, but as I say it, it feels true. It feels final, like something that can’t be changed.
There’s no response from you. It’s possible you’re just busy, but to my feelings in that moment, it feels more likely that I’ve flooded you. Overloaded you. Because I’m too much. I’ve said too much. Again.
I sigh, close the program. Navigate to something else. A task that needs to be done. And as I work on it, my attention completely shifts. I’ve left our discussion behind. Fully absorbed in the task, I barely register the sound of a chat notification.
But I do register it. Sighing, I glance at the message you’ve sent me.
That is so fascinating! You write back. That makes me think of…
The chat program bounces. I smile as a dozen messages pop into view, one after another.
It’s a welcome reminder that there’s really no such thing as being “too much.” Not objectively anyway. For the right people, your quirks will be welcome — and maybe even match.