Motormouth

“Why do you talk so much,” they’d ask me while driving in the car. “Abby, I’ll give you a dollar for every minute that you’re silent.” These words were frustratedly spewed at me, like a raindrop hitting a windshield. When I was younger, these moments would seem funny to me. I was at the age when aggravating people seemed entertaining, not worrisome. As if poking the bear wouldn’t result in a bear attack. Nevertheless, I continued talking… and talking…and talking. And I never did get a dollar for the minutes I was quiet, usually because I couldn’t make it through a full minute. I never thought anything of it either; if I wanted to talk, I’d talk. It wasn’t until I stepped out of that protective wrap and into the age of awareness and anxiety, that I began to think a lot about my so-called “motormouth.” 

To this day, my parents and siblings often tell me that I talk too much. Whether it be talking about my day during dinner, or telling a story that takes twenty detours before getting to the final destination. “Take a breath,” people would tell me. Take a breath? I’d ask myself. I didn’t think I was running out of breaths. It took me a long time to realize that those words were their way of telling me to be quiet. Give me a second, is what they were secretly saying. As if their brain needed to prepare, as if they was about to jump off a cliff and needed time to compose themselves first. That’s what conversations with me were like for other people; a strenuous activity. I’ve trained myself to find the difference between those who find my enthusiasm grueling and those who don’t. Unfortunately, this exercise has also trained me to put a damper on my motormouth, like throwing a wet blanket over the flames of my personality. 

For this reason, meeting new people has always been a struggle for me. Do I throw that wet blanket on or let the fire burn? Usually, the wet blanket wins. The loss of that beautiful,  protective wrap has left me worrying what others will think of me if I were to let those flames fully burn. Very few people see my true self, my bonfire, while others only get a match or two. This is something I’m ashamed of; allowing other people’s reactions to determine who I am and how I act. Most of the time, I am accepting of my talkativeness. I wrap it around myself and hold it close, as if it were that same wrap I lost years ago. It stays like that until my training comes back and I notice someone’s uncomfortability around me, that’s when the new wrap begins to tear once again. The tear happens when I remember that I’m not supposed to be comfortable with myself if it means I’m causing discomfort to someone else. At least that’s what society trained me to think. As if I’m a cow who’s been trained to stay within the bounds of it’s farm, rather than roam in it’s fields. I wish to shatter that fence entirely. 

In my goal to be more accepting and unapologetic for my talkativeness, I’ve made my letter big and bright. Someone recently said to me, “take up space and don’t apologize for doing so.” This is what I strive to do. The sin this letter is meant to represent is not what I believe it to be. To me, this letter represents something to be proud of. It represents something I want to flourish. Now, when someone tells me I talk too much, I’ll only talk more. I will no longer throw a wet blanket over my flames or roam within my fence. My letter represents the burning of my blanket, the splintering of my fence and the igniting of my fire.

“I wish to shatter that fence entirely.”