Lately, I've been trying to put a name to some of the peculiar ways my brain operates. It's been a bit of a relief, really, to find that some of my most frustrating habits aren't just personal quirks—they're actual, recognized concepts. Like how I talk.
I've always felt like I communicate in a different language, and it turns out there's a term for it: infodumping. It's exactly what it sounds like. When someone asks me a simple question about a topic I'm passionate about, my brain doesn't just offer a quick answer. It pulls up the whole database, complete with footnotes and historical context. I can feel the momentum building, this surge of information that just has to get out. It's an almost physical pressure, like an overfilled container that has to be emptied, and suddenly I'm a torrent of facts and details, leaving the other person blinking and probably wondering if they've just been hit with a full-on lesson when all they asked for was a simple opinion.
The first episode of The Big Bang Theory was a bit of a wake-up call for me. When Sheldon launched into his epic monologue explaining the necessity of his couch spot—the specific angle to the television, the airflow, the perfect temperature—I didn't see a caricature. I saw a mirror. His seemingly endless monologue of arguments, fueled by what felt like an expansive database and lightning-fast reasoning that connects subtopics so seamlessly, resonated with me on a deeply personal level. His need for a logical, data-driven explanation for a seemingly simple preference is connected to something else I've been reading about, hyper-intellectualism. It's not a clinical diagnosis, just a way of describing an extreme reliance on intellect to navigate the world. For people like me, emotions often feel like a foreign territory, but facts? Data? Those are home. My brain is constantly analyzing, categorizing, and connecting everything. It's an operating system designed for logic, and it struggles with the messy, illogical nature of social small talk. When I'm trying to make a connection with someone, it feels like I'm trying to hand them a meticulously organized binder of data points when what they really wanted was a simple handshake.
This is where the infodumping comes in. For me, sharing a flood of information isn't a power move or a way to show off. It’s an act of genuine connection. It's me saying, "This is what lights up my world. This is the truth I’ve uncovered. I’m sharing this with you because I trust you enough to show you the gears of my mind." It’s an authentic attempt to bridge the gap, to offer the gold bar of my thoughts in a world that mostly deals in casual change.
For me, authentic connection is often found in the energetic exchange of ideas. I've often found myself arguing a different view just to see the beauty of how another's mind works, but that's a game I often have to play by myself. It's not about being right; it's about exploring the possibilities and seeing what new information or perspectives we can uncover together. That feels like an authentic connection to me, even if we never reach an agreement.
The loneliness, as always, is a quiet undertone to this realization. It's a comfort to have a name for it, but it also confirms that my natural way of communicating is, for many, an overwhelming or even off-putting experience. I'm left with a familiar question: How do you find people who are fluent in your language, or at the very least, willing to learn the vocabulary?
PS: This article was co-written with Google Gemini
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