Growing up I was a curious child; ‘why’, was my favourite word. In school I was praised for my endless questions, and it got me ahead- my curiosity lead me to learn far more than my peers who were indifferent to anything outside of the small radius of their own lives. I was insatiable, no matter what I learnt I always wanted to know more… why. The adults around me would laugh at my inquisitive nature, and label me wise beyond my years for my thirst to learn, my knack for getting people to think, to open up and share. My questions made others question themselves.
I have a vivid memory of sitting in the middle of the netball team my mother coached one tart night. I would have been no more than eight or nine, 15-20 years their junior. Perched on a pristine white ball in the centre of their circle, my breath coming out in little puffs in the winter evening air, I listened intently to their conversations, absorbing as much as I could. With my fingers tucked under my bottom, numb from the cold, burning from the frost and the biting grip of the balls surface I interjected with my own quips and questions. I recall looking over at my mother, a look of slight worry on her face- perhaps in fear that my chatting would at best annoy her team, and at worst distract them from their training. As an only child I went everywhere my mother did, often finding myself amongst conversations far too mature for my age. But the women did not huff and puff at my presence, rather they laughed; this adorable, talkative little girl an entertaining distraction. They found my oddness, my loud confidence endearing. And so I kept talking.
Over the years I have refined my method of questioning, but not once have I learned when to stop. I still have not mastered the method of restraint. As a teenager, and quickly after, an adult, my curiosity to know everything about everyone grew- and as our lives and relationships became more complex, more intense, so too did my questioning. My relentless prompting became more earnest in nature, an innate desire to understand people- what drives them, inspires them, makes them tick. A need to know who they are and why they do what they do.
Sometimes I wonder if my need to know the why behind everything is born of fear, an urge to gain control, a need to feel stable. If I know why things are the way they are I cannot be surprised, the rug cannot be pulled from under me. I am an equal, and hopefully a step ahead. As sinister as that sounds it does not come from a desire to control people, rather, a deep need to know who they are so I may match them, support them better- their intrinsic motivations write a map on how I must navigate myself with them; and perhaps how I can protect myself.
I love people; their complexities, their uniqueness. I want to know their why, so I can hold them best. I seek to cradle people in safety; to feel seen and heard. Valued. But slowly I am learning not everyone wishes to be seen; not all are ready to be held. And it is with those people I find myself scrambling, even more desperate to know what goes on in their mind. Just let me care for you, you are safe with me. But I know they will come around in their own time; perhaps these are the people I must stand alongside a little longer, to learn patience, to learn that not everything must be known.
As a child my curiosity matured me, expanded my vocabulary both with language and experiences. As an adult, my curiosity has helped me pass exams, pick up skills faster, get promoted quicker- gain trust and develop more intimate relationships. But sometimes, my curiosity causes me pain. Just because you learn the answer, does not mean you will feel any better once you know; sometimes we get answers we do not want. And in those moments I wonder if ignorance truly is bliss. There is often a moment before I ask what could be a risky question, a moment of pause that I have slowly developed over the years- my mind slowing down just enough to try and protect me, but my heart always wins and out it pours. And the times the answers come to me like a bullet through my chest, a blow that knocks the breath from me, I sense my composure slip. Lately I have let it come crumbling down more often. I used to nod, and calmly respond- the picture of understanding. And people would often remark, ‘you are so calm, nothing rattles you!’ And its true, it does take a lot to truly rattle me, most things I can take in my stride, after all, I was the one who asked- it is my own fault if I learn something I do not like. But in the last six months, I have become more vulnerable, a little more human- I have tried on shock, grief, anger; let myself have feelings rather than a regulated, intellectual response. But some of the pain is avoidable right? If I just stopped myself when things start to get shaky, instead of pushing forward and running headlong into the wind- if I just let myself remain in the dark perhaps I would be happier. A friend of mine used to tease that I enjoy suffering- and all these years later, I am starting to wonder if what he said is true. I guess I am only human after all.
It is funny how your greatest strength can also be your greatest weakness. My ability to ask the right questions, to allow people to feel safe enough to open up encourages deeper relationships and a sense of trust with those around me that most people may never experience. But it can also open cans of worms that I am not always equipped to hold. Sometimes what I learn does nothing but hurt me and discolour my experience; leaving stains like cherry juice on my skin. Once you know something, you cannot un-know. Its a balancing act, this art of asking.
So I wonder, is knowledge always power? Or is it at times just a burden?
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