Mandy Nolan’s Soapbox: Never Can Say Goodbye

Have you ever been told something about yourself that is absolutely breathtakingly true but something you had NEVER realised? At 56, I just discovered I suck at exits. A very perceptive young friend told me as I left a small gathering. They said, ‘You don’t do goodbyes do you?’ I was confused but then I reflected on how I’d just got up from the table and bolted.

As I crossed the road towards my escape vehicle it occurred to me that it’s exactly what I do all the time. At 1.24pm on a Saturday afternoon I had an epiphany crossing the road outside the Bangalow pub. I have been speeding away from social situations my entire adult life. It was a small and profound moment. It made me realise that although I am super comfortable entering social engagements, I’ve never really known how to exit. It makes me anxious.

So now, every time I leave a social situation I’m super-focused on consciously extracting myself and ensuring that I say goodbye, hold eye contact, and have those long drawn out ‘See ya later’, ‘Let’s catch up again soon’, ‘Great hanging out’, ‘Love ya!’ -type farewells. I find it excruciating. I’m never quite sure how many of these you do. I find myself saying goodbye to some people twice, so then I have to say it to other people twice to make it even. If I hug one person do I have to hug everyone? Can some people get a hug and others not? Do I kiss? The other day I found myself at Woolies consciously saying goodbye to the checkout operator, ‘Bye’ and she said, ‘Bye’. And then I said, ‘Love you’. Awkward.

I think I’m really over doing the ‘goodbye’ thing. Who would have thought making your exit could be so hard? That’s why I love comedy so much, you get a big laugh and you say ‘goodnight’ and everyone claps and you’re gone. It’s clean and simple. But apparently your friends and family demand more than that. And the bastards don’t clap.

I just go. I know I’ve done it to my husband. They’ve been times when I have been on a mission to leave the house and I’ve texted him half-way through the day, ‘did I just leave and not say goodbye?’ and he’s said, ‘Yes’. People who love me clearly are used to my weird behaviour.

I miss sneaking out. Disappearing is my favourite way to leave a party. While I love the social engagement, when I’ve decided it’s time to leave I find that half an hour of extraction conversation awkward and unnecessary, so I vanish. I know other people do it too because I’ve seen them running to their cars. Here they are, the socially anxious and the neuro-diverse, bolting.

The thing is, I never realised I did it, until someone named it. And then it came into focus. It’s bizarre being over five decades into life and still finding out things about yourself that everyone else knows. It’s embarrassing, but it’s useful. And it gives you a chance to change. Or at least explain to other people that your behavioural aberrations are a personal quirk, not intended to create offence.

I thought long and hard about what deep psychological scarring I might carry that makes exits so hard. The last thing my Mum ever said to my Dad was ‘if there’s such thing as a God, how does he let someone like you live?’ And he never came back. He was killed in a car accident. She was the victim of horrendous domestic violence, so it was a legitimate question. I don’t think she ever expected him not to come back. It was a powerful and life-changing goodbye for her, and for me, and definitely for him.

So why do I suck at goodbyes? Dunno. I guess I do what every avoidant adult baby does when confronted with their chance to take personal responsibility.

I blame my mother.