Conversations Suck 1: Everything is Wrong

Note: This blog delves into serious issues involving my personal life. If you're looking for entertainment, you won't find it here.

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I've made it abundantly clear that writing dialogue scenes is what's most difficult for me. But the truth is I hate conversations in general.

Only I don't think that's entirely true, because I'm only coming to this realization tonight.

I've always attributed my trouble with dialogue scenes with an equal amount of trouble getting into the head of the characters involved. It was always an exercise in viewing the events from their perspective, complete with their nuances and biases. That's always rung true up until now. I mean, seeing things from a character I've created is hard enough because I know their biases, but tonight I've found out something different.

Conversations suck.

There's a lot of personal stake behind this view. Earlier tonight, I was eating dinner with my parents, and I was uncomfortable for the entire time. See, all day today has been one of those I can't do anything right and all of my talks with dear old Dad just boil down to me admitting that I've done nothing right kind of days. (Ever have those? No, just me? Figures.) His brand of holding a conversation involves a lot of questions that usually mean he wants a quick answer. And those conversations and those answers typically play into some point he'll get to, then explain, then explain some more. What really makes these conversations awkward is that the manner of my answer will usually be dismissed outright. If I say everything on my mind - "Oh, it's at least four, I don't remember exactly how many." - he'll interrupt me until I reduce myself to just a one-word answer. "Four."

At some level, I think that's fine. The issue I find with it is that I've had similar conversations thousands of times with him over the years. The kinds where I'll start to answer and then be interrupted, usually by him just saying no. Each conversation is told in a thousand different ways, but I always remember that part. No. "No, Aaron, you're wrong, do it right."

And after a couple of decades spent being told that I'm wrong?

I came to a certain conclusion about three or four years ago, sometime after I had secured my own apartment for the first time. I asked myself why I avoided interacting with my parents, my father most of all, when I owed so much to them? The answer took many forms across many sleepless nights, but I eventually found the answer: I was tired of being told I was wrong. I wanted some kind of interaction where I could be told I was right, or at least not entirely wrong. That's why finding peers on the internet became so priceless for me - I could share my thoughts and receive feedback based on those thoughts, and I could rest easy knowing that the feedback only went as far as the thoughts themselves. There was no judgment, no deeper meaning, not unless I sought it out. I could go an entire week without being told I was wrong.

Maybe it was because there was no interruption. It's hard to cut someone off in a forum post or an instant message. So in the end, I was capable of actually sharing my thoughts.

All of this plays into tonight's realization due to a story my mother was sharing with us over dinner. She has this knack to go into detail on irrelevant things in order to keep her thoughts straight. There are times where it becomes annoying (let's be real, at some point it would), and for a moment I was politely waiting for her to continue with the meat of the tale. Across the table, I hear my dad say something to the tune of "Get on with it.", which I've heard before. It was enough for her to get back on track, but for a moment I was thrown. I focused on that phrase, that request-turned-demand to get on with it, and I found myself thinking about the concept of small talk.

What's its purpose? Small talk can be used to diffuse a tense situation, make an awkward meeting even more awkward, or to stall for time, among other things. It can also be used to help tell a story. In my mom's case, she was likely trying to tell her story while also stalling for a moment to gather her next memory, both of which are fine. I mean, there's no wrong way to tell a story, is there? As long as the person telling the story tells it in a way they think is true and complete, then more power to them!

Then there are those kinds of people who want you to get on with it when you're telling a story. They don't want the story; they want the point. The moral. To them, the story is being told wrong.

It's all reinforced my opinion about talking with my dad: I can't do it. Every time I try, and every point I make, I'm told that I am wrong in some form or another. I'm wrong for answering in a certain fashion, I'm wrong for not thinking of a certain question during an interview, I'm wrong for not replying within a few seconds, I'm wrong for actually explaining myself, I'm wrong for thinking that my explanation will actually lead to a more healthy relationship, I'm wrong for trying, for doing, for thinking, I'm wrong every time.

So after twenty-seven years of being told you're wrong, at what point do you stop believing it?

To be continued when I gather my thoughts.