Among Others - A Social Misfit’s Guide to People-Watching (and Loathing)

Whenever I walk through public spaces, I realize I don’t like people. I feel distant, irritated, as if we’re operating on different wavelengths. Once in a while, I meet someone who breaks through that barrier, but it’s usually because they share the same irritation. Like the time I mentioned to a woman in line that I’m often misperceived, and she simply said, “F— them.” It was like finding a long-lost comrade, a fellow alien from my planet. It wasn’t love, exactly, but it was a deep, instant recognition: someone else who finds people just as exhausting.

I observe couples, families, groups—people who seem to thrive in each other’s company—and I wonder what they could possibly be talking about. How do they find so much to say, with such ease? They walk and speak with a confidence I seem to lack, or at least struggle to maintain. Before leaving the house, I tell myself to look relaxed, to act as though this—being around people—doesn’t bother me. But inevitably, I slip. I’ll sigh or give a clipped response, and then it’s like I’ve blown my cover. Suddenly, it’s obvious: I’m uncomfortable here. I don’t fit in. I’m trying, but I don’t like this, don’t like them.

Part of me hates that about myself. Another part accepts it, even finds humor in it. I want to be one of those people who moves through life laughing at the absurdity of it all, but I can’t seem to get there. I preach to others about living freely, about letting go of expectations, but I can’t do it myself. People get in my way—of my peace, my happiness, my balance. They drain the energy I need to be the carefree, spiritually enlightened person I claim to be. In truth, I don’t dislike people because they’re people—I dislike them because of what they take from me.

To all the people out there, I’m sorry for not liking you. I’m sure you’re thinking, “You don’t even know me,” and that’s true. But believe me, if I did, I’d probably feel just as uneasy. I’m fine on the first meeting—charming, even. I’ve learned to be. But by the second time, if I haven’t managed to avoid you, I’d start to crack under the pressure. I’d struggle to maintain that charm, which mostly relies on asking questions and deflecting attention. There’s only so far that can take me.

Is it me, though? I ask myself that a lot. Do I genuinely dislike people, or do I push them away before they have the chance to reject me? Is it the process of small talk I hate, or is it something deeper, something about being vulnerable? Maybe. People haven’t always been kind to me, and yet I wonder if it’s fair to judge them all the same. But as I sit here, surrounded by a crowded space, the answer still feels like yes. I’m sorry, but I really don’t like people.

There’s a strange irony in writing this among so many people. It’s like passing notes in class, pretending I’m invisible, like I’m not one of them. I glance up from my phone, half-expecting to see them disliking me in return. Instead, they’re laughing, talking, absorbed in each other, while I sit alone, typing away. I almost laugh at the absurdity of it. Then, across the room, I notice someone else sitting alone, typing on her phone. For a split second, I think it’s my reflection, but it’s another person, doing her own thing, just like me. Is she writing about not liking people, too? I wish I knew.

But we’ll never meet. If we did, we’d probably both sigh, shuffle awkwardly, and get in each other’s way. And, likely, we’d both think: “I really don’t like people.”