I think it’s both a blessing and a curse to be a communicator.
I grew up talking. All the time. Talking all the time. Ask my teachers, my family, my cousins, my Mom. (Oh, my poor Mom.) I do blame this on her, though. I was in a counseling group for kids of divorced parents at an early age and then again when my Dad was dying of cancer. Talking, talking, talking = healthy in our family.
Back when I was growing up the family mantra was = If it’s bothering you, talk about it.
I can see this as both a good thing and a not so good thing.
See, those of us who verbalize our frustrations and conflicts can be confusing to others. Case in point: I don’t stew and ruminate and over-analyze and question. If something’s bothering me — I feel it. It creeps up through my toes, lands in my stomach and in the back of my neck and I MUST talk about it or I will EXPLODE.
And then I’m done.
I hate conflict and will do just about anything to avoid it; I prefer everyone to be laughing together.
Back to talking. I think that there’s a fine line between over-communication and under-communication and I’ll probably spend my whole life towing it. Or at least trying to tow it.
I’ll figure it out one day.