We all have our nervous habits--those pesky quirks that pop up at moments when we want to be calm, cool and collected. When I am in a group of unfamiliar, new people, I have great difficulty speaking. I follow the conversation, think of responses or comments but never speak them. Friends look at me strangely when leaving these parties or get-together's wondering where their talkative friend was hiding. For some reason, in large groups, I get completely overwhelmed and can't talk. My tongue feels heavy and thick, my palms sweat and my heart rate quickens when I walk into a club, party or concert. If I can find a person or two to converse with in a corner, I am fine. If not, I just stick closely to whoever I came with and watch them magically fit in, laugh and converse. As soon as my friend and I leave the party, I start chatting away, or we just walk in a contented silence--I am comfortable again.

The odd thing is that when I am with a person who makes me feel nervous or intimidated, I can't shut up. In this case, I blabber on and on about pointless things because silence, well, silence would be terrible. My brain creates thoughts at maximum speed and because I am incapable of hiding my feelings, he would know everything I am thinking. At least if I keep a steady stream of blather going, he can't see inside of me...or so I tell myself. The people who cause this reaction tend to be friends (mostly guys)) who look at me and see things. They unnerve me with their intuition and perceptiveness. While I am no woman of mystery, I am a woman who is very much in control of herself and what people see of me. My true self stands across a wide moat, choosing who can cross and enter, but there are a select few who have crossed uninvited so blabbering becomes my personal armor. These people could hurt me because for some reason they get me in profound ways, but they have never made the promise of friendship, the promise that they will protect the secrets they see and so I babble--it is my last line of defense.

Sadly, these seers of my soul are people I would love to know better, intimately even, but they never see the true me--the open me, the quiet me. The person I am on my own and with my closest friends is so very different than the person I am in crowds or with these uninvited intimates. I am quiet, thoughtful, pensive, open, warm, funny--all things I am proud of, things I love about myself. But when I am with him, I become a person I don't like, a person incapable of enjoying silent companionship or substantive conversation. I lose my sense of humor, which is an integral part of me, and hear my laugh as shrill and forced. Before I go on stage I have almost paralyzing fear, but then I take a few deep breaths, shake out my legs and arms and I am ready. With the seers, there is no trick to end the nerves. I have known one seer in particular for six years and have tried numerous techniques but as soon I see him and we make eye contact, I lose myself--my quiet self. I fill the air with inanity and when I walk away, I feel sad that I was not brave enough to be just me. Perhaps I lack maturity or harbor insecurities of not living up to my public persona, but I had hoped that by 26, I would outgrow this nervous habit of blathering. It tires me, and I am sure the receivers get tired, as well. Perhaps someday I will outgrow my Chatty Cathy tendencies and show these seers the grounded, quiet, intense, low-key person that resides happily inside.