I willingly admit I’m a terrible listener. I tend to tune out mid-conversation and can barely let a friend finish a story without interrupting. Unfortunately I’m an equally dismal conversationalist and can never think of the right things to say. Social settings have always made me nervous, my mind runs frantic like a lab rat on amphetamines and I generally spout nonsense and make an incredible fool of myself. In one sentence, I can kill a conversation with an inappropriate anecdote, my IQ immediately dropping 20 points in the process. The way I see it: if I make myself as awkward as possible, others around me will feel reasonably well adjusted in comparison, so I’m really doing them a massive favour.
But enough is enough. I have done some soul searching (and a lot of napping, some procrastinating, and more napping) and have come to the realisation that I am obsessed. I am obsessed with trying to articulate the crazy and absurd thoughts in my mind in a way that makes sense. I’m too focused on what I’m saying that I am not listening to what others are saying. That’s right, I have forgotten the basic skills of human communication.
My family calls it ‘selective hearing.’ I hear what I want and block out that which I deem is filler. It’s kind of a superpower. But with great power comes great responsibility, and with my selective hearing comes a whole lot of white noise. Now sometimes this superpower is a lifesaver. For example, I have a great ability to block out unwanted information while appearing like I’m keenly listening. It’s what got me through high-school science class. (Well that, and my brother did my assignments.) But other times, it’s my very own kryptonite. Yes, my selective hearing has left me with the emotional maturity of a two year old. I’m concerned I'm at the age where my lack of basic life skills are transitioning from endearing quirks to tragic character flaws.
Granted, most of us don’t really listen very well. Or if we do manage to listen, we are often just waiting until the other person finishes what they are saying so that we can say what is on our mind. But that’s not really listening, is it? My social anxiety dictates I must not only keep up with the conversation but I must predict the turn it will take next. It’s a catch-22, a cruel self-sabotage. Because of course I end up making very little sense and zoning out at any chance I get. I guess I’m like Walter Mitty that way. Which beckons the question, how much time a day do I spend daydreaming? And how much better off would I be if I used that precious time connecting with the rest of the human race? Or napping? Either one.
Like basket weaving and calligraphy, listening is a rare and underrated art. But while a society without basket weaving may be a miserable dystopia, a world without listening is a full-blown world war. Think about how much petty conflict could be solved if everyone took a time out and just listened. Truly and openly listened.
The only way we learn is by listening. By blocking others out we are doing ourselves a great disservice. Over time we can seal ourselves off from other people until we don’t really know who they are or what concerns them. Eventually, we become more and more self-involved, less open-minded, quick to judge and slow to understand.
So I’m hanging up the cape and cowl. My selective hearing is really no superpower, and I’m no superhero. My occasional fits of egomania are brought swiftly back down to earth when I remember I can barely take care of myself and I still have a lot to learn. So I will listen. Yes, I will listen. Because everyone needs to be heard.
