It was not a strategy or habit that I consciously cultivated. Certainly, it would have served me well in most any situation—home, school, practice, church or just trying to remain tearless and unbruised in the rough and beat-on neighborhood of my primary years. It’s all about avoidance, safety and the ability, the right even, to simply disappear. No tears, well wishes, hugs or insincerity, and most importantly, none of the rote words attempting to convey emotions not truly felt—or, even worse, real and difficult feelings overwhelming me.

It was after the final performance of the play I was in junior year of college that the fear of pain, of loss, prompted me to disappear from the cast party and stage breakdown. Usually on the periphery anyway, the fade away I practice is far too easy to perpetrate.

In my birth family, it’s known as the “Irish exit”, though I’ve heard it called “French exit” in other quarters. Falling where I do in the family, sequentially, temperamentally, I almost certainly am better at it, though my older sister Katie must come close to my skill level.

If I could consistently make it happen, I’d practice the Irish entrance as well. As you may have guessed, sneaking into an event is far harder than getting out unseen. Even parking down the street, using the back door, silently merging with others leaves one open to inquisition. It can be very helpful to carry something in, even a full bladder (pretend as needed, with a hunch over and hand on belly button) to avoid perfunctory questions and practiced answers.

Furtive, frightened, perhaps maladjusted—all of these are likely apt descriptions for a leaver like me. I was actually a performer in that play preceding that cast party. That was I onstage, reciting my lines, acting as expected, as directed. That exposure I can manage—on stage, I knew just what to do and say. Stage direction and script came included. No matter how often I run lines in my head to deal with the impromptu nature of human interaction, the other actors on my life’s stage insist on ad libs.

I can’t stand the whispered, boozy confidences, the overwrought and held-too-long hugs. The pretenses of let’s get together and it was sooo wonderful to see you wore thin for me even before I understood such stock phrases for what they are. I’ve heard such film-flam from my own mouth.

What I failed to learn is that, in the thickets of flattery and falsehood, flowers also grow—that some people truly are pleased to see me. Sometimes words, actions and emotion align. Among those few whose words are true, whose warmth is real. I am becoming aware that such people exist, and they enter by the front door. I’d like to meet them more often, and my sudden arrivals and departures can not help. Ad libbing, telling the truth, staying silent as needed—these I can do.

It was so nice seeing you! See you next week—looking forward to it!