A minor irritant

I’m told that, when I was little, I became bored much too easily. That propensity, along with my prolific motor-mouth, made me quite the “minor irritant” to my mother. She likened me to an active, yappy little puppy—always getting underfoot, finding trouble, making messes, babbling endlessly, and driving her nuts. She loved me for sure, but I know I must have worn her out with my constant demands for attention and interaction.

The truth is, I was crazy about my mother.

I could never get enough of her. I always wanted to be with her and I craved her attention. I was very little, so of course the entire universe revolved around me. Therefore, when my mother and I were together, I insisted on having her all to myself. I did whatever was necessary to monopolize her every waking moment. I made it impossible for her to ignore me.

Today, I can be a well-behaved, “normal” adult woman most of the time.

I’m not the type of person who demands the spotlight or needs to be the center of attention. I think I’ve learned to interact fairly well with other humanoids on this planet, and I don’t believe that others find me too terribly irritating.

Still, I cringe to admit it, but maybe I haven’t really changed that much over the years. When I’m connected with someone I truly care about, I’m afraid I still turn into that little motor-mouth all over again. I babble on incessantly and take advantage of every opportunity to interact. When it comes to someone I really like, I can never get enough attention or communication.

I try to rein myself in.

I really do. I don’t want to be selfish, so I attempt to reason with myself about my unreasonable behavior. I tell myself that people don’t always want to be saturated with my attention. People have other things to do, other lives to live, other responsibilities and interests. I try to not be so obsessive. Sometimes I succeed, but not always.

I like you. A LOT.

If you find that I’ve been a minor irritant to you, please know, it’s just that I want to wrap myself up in your friendship. It’s my nature—I want to overdose on you. There are a million-and-one things I long to do with you and know about you. I may never run out of energy and enthusiasm for one-on-one experiences with you.

I know I’m terribly obsessive, and I know I can be a pest, like a yappy little puppy. But that’s because I think you’re a very cool person, and I love being connected with you.

Is that so bad?

Karen