Not saying much

Lately, I've been having a hard time finding words. Oh, I have plenty to SAY, I just. . .the words get up to my teeth and . . .stop. Even the words that pass "The Gates" just . . .stop.  Mostly what goes through my head in those moment is "No one wants to hear this". I hate being the person in a conversation that contributes the words that everyone smiles and hums awkwardly at before the conversation takes a sharp turn to anything else, and by all that is holy, unholy or neutral, I have a gift for THOSE words. That fear is making me quieter as I age. Lately, I've been feeling like I'm self-silencing - which is good in some respects, I guess. I mean it isn't like I've ever been accused of being quiet, so maybe this is just. . .mellowing? I don't know.  My worry is the timing of this. I'm getting to know people and trying making friends. It is pretty hard to get to know someone who doesn't tell you about herself. That's where I'm at. I have my stories. Most of them are horrible. Some of them are horribly funny. Most of them though. . .most of my life doesn't pass "The Gates" of polite conversation. I don't want to remember most of my stories. Why would I share that? The things I have to talk about that DO pass "The Gates", no one but  me is truly interested in. (Either that or they have WAY more experience in the interest than I do. I don't mind not talking then. I learn tons that way.) I know all the "silence is golden" proverbs. I've been chanting them to myself since I was young. I'm not talking about just talking,  but the flow of conversation that allows people to get to know each other. I'm afraid I've become "that quiet person" who doesn't contribute to any conversation. I'm becoming background in my own life. That's. . . a sticky thought. What I've been noticing is that I'm getting to know people around me, but I'm pretty sure they aren't getting to know me. This is a worry, but maybe it shouldn't be. Like I said, How do you get to know someone who doesn't tell you about herself? I can see people realizing that I'm choosing my words carefully - that I'm holding back -  when asked questions about myself, and I realize that makes people suspicious. I have no idea what to do about any of it, but I realize it.  Overall - and this is the real struggle - this dynamic is getting me to think of running back to my misanthropic den and holing up for the rest of forever. So tempting that thought. So unhealthy, like fudge dipped fried red dye number five cherry ice-cream bites.  I don't really want to do that, either. That action is just my safe place. My crazy, barbed, razor-wire lined little safe place.  Being alone has been my default safe place since forever. As far back as I can remember, being alone was the safest thing, because no one can fuck with you when you are alone. Which is a lovely illusion, isn't it? Only you're never so far away from yourself that you can't fuck with your own head. So. . .I'm trying to keep going. Going out. Reaching out. I acknowledge that its pretty hard to reach out to someone who is desperately clinging to her knitting/spinning/whatever trying to not blurt out something awkward. So, I sit there, clinging to my crafts and trying to not look like a serial killer in the larval stage. Sigh. I don't know. Maybe I just need to resign myself to being one of the quiet people in the background. There are much worse fates.