There’s a well-known instance of a memorable interruption during the 2009 MTV Video Music Awards.

As Taylor Swift commenced her acceptance speech for Best Female Music Video, Kanye West rushed onto the stage, grabbed the microphone, and famously declared, “I’mma let you finish,” before asserting that Beyoncé deserved the award instead.

Swift’s surprise and disappointment were understandable. His behavior now serves as a cultural reference for the disruptive nature of interrupters.

These people may not realize the impact they have on others. They might not even be aware that they’re coming off as impolite.

Perhaps they genuinely believe their ideas hold more significance than others’.

Whatever the underlying reason, having conversations with habitual interrupters can be really challenging.

While most interruptions don’t unfold as publicly or dramatically as the VMAs incident, they can still be exasperating.

It could be a coworker interjecting during a meeting or a friend consistently cutting short your stories. Continuous interruptions can be so frustrating.

Many habitual interrupters may not even realize their tendencies, or they might believe their interruptions are warranted.

The problem is, trying to address the issue politely can feel like a losing battle. The interruptions keep coming, and your frustration builds with each one.

A common tip suggests politely interrupting them back to express your desire to finish your thought.

You might say something like, “I wasn’t finished talking yet,” or “I appreciate your input, but I’d like to complete my point.”

This should be a direct and assertive approach that sends a clear message.

Anyone not stupid would get the message but anyone louder than us would definitely not hear that at all.

Maybe sarcasm would work better with certain people.

We’ll let them talk, talk all they want, if we have the time for that. Then by the time they finished, pretend to be innocently inquire:

“So, is it my turn to talk…yet?”

They might be a little stunned by the seemingly innocent question or they might not.

If they seem oblivious, let them prattle on forever while we look everywhere except at them. Check our phone, admire our manicure or fingers - counting people passing by or just stare at our shoes.

Don't forget to glance at your imaginary watch too. Of course, we wouldn't want to interrupt their captivating monologue by asking the actual time. That would be terribly rude!

Feign surprise after a long pause of silence after they are done talking.

"Oh my! Dreadful of me, wasn't it? I didn't realize you'd graced us with the end of your profound thoughts."

A friend suggested simply turning around and walking away, which works well if you're not stuck with them, like in a carpool situation.

I know it’s not a nice thing to do but it happened to me countless times. I felt unheard and ignored or maybe I should get used to being interrupted or being talked over.

Sometimes I have to resort to... less-than-ideal tactics to get the point across. The most extreme example? The silent treatment. When my partner, who loves to interrupt, launches into a monologue, I simply let him talk.

Then, I would go home to talk to my cats. At least they listen without interrupting!

Anyone who's mastered the art of dealing with constant interrupters, please share your wisdom! I'm on the hunt for effective communication strategies, not a shouting match.

©Britt H.

Thank you for reading this.

If you’d like to support my writing — you can consider buying me a coffee here. Any support holds immense significance for a disabled neurodivergent like me.

Hello, I'm Britt.

You may have come across my body of work on different platforms—like my Substack but I’m excited to start this new chapter here on Paragraph.

For me, writing isn’t just my craft; it’s my sole way of working. As someone navigating multiple chronic illnesses with frequent medical treatments at various hospitals and clinics, my routine often leaves me with little energy or capacity for much else.

As an autistic individual with a severe anxiety disorder, holding a conventional job is almost an impossible feat—a sad reality that is a stark contrast to how I used to be able to function. These days, even an unexpected phone call can throw me into disarray, let alone stepping out the door.

Despite these immense challenges, they have, unexpectedly, opened new doors. In a way, being chronically ill has been a blessing in disguise, granting me the space and courage to pursue writing.

You could say I’m an unknown and perpetually poor writer (not everyone can be J.K. Rowling!).

I juggle inconsistent odd remote jobs alongside the limited income my writing generates on different platforms.

Your support here helps me continue this work and truly makes all the difference as I explore new avenues.

Thank you for being here and for considering supporting my journey.

Previously published on Substack

There’s not much time for this respite. It’s only a matter of time until she’ll have to wipe those tears and snot from her face. She will then draw her smile bigger, extending from both corners of her mouth to her cheeks.

And just like that, the clown smiles again.

I learned to apply the makeup from a young age, whether I liked it or not. If I had just come out from a beating, I was expected to wash away the tears and snot from my face and get on with it.

For the sake of survival, I would practice my acts in front of the mirror. Sometimes I did well, but most of the time I did badly. I was alive, but there was something dead inside me, something that I didn’t want to show the world.

Often, there was this overwhelming discomfort inside me, like something I had to release or I would spiral into a meltdown. These meltdowns were quite destructive at times.

I would use a sharp blade and draw it across my skin until I saw beads of blood.

It was as if these were the demons I had to let out before they completely overtook my mind and body, and also like there was a relief from the immense pressure built up inside.

It felt like the only way to manage my unbearable internal state.

There are those who especially love to poke the sleeping bear, and they bore witness to my meltdowns. They decided that I was the crazy, mad woman. Both the self-harm and the meltdown were almost always triggered.

The time before my major breakdown in 2017, these episodes were so frequent that I ran out of long sleeves on my working days to cover them up.

Come to think of it, it was a gore sight: my wrist was a canvas of a mad artist, covered in angry red, swollen slashes, some fresh with scabs, others older, all on top of the piling scars.

It wasn’t easy to hide all of this while pretending to be all sunny on the outside, dealing with livelihood. Depressed or not, we are not dead, and we still need to earn a living.

So, I became this clown, putting on a show with my fake persona and buffoonery to please everyone. I learned how to smile and laugh while suppressing my tears.

Away from all that, when I’m alone, I’ll be accompanied by the frown of a clown in the mirror. Trails of tears ran down from her eyes to her chin, opaque from the pasty makeup.

We must not let anyone see this, or I would lose my credibility as a job holder.

I drew a bigger smile, extending the line from the corners of my lips until it reached my cheeks. That way, I would always be the smiling clown that everyone loves.

I became a clown in order to survive in this nonsensical society. While not many want to be one, they would very much love for others to do all the clowning for their amusement; they derive pleasure from the sight of people making a jester out of themselves.

I’m expected to keep my smile on even when my flesh is being branded by the red-hot iron they hold, or else they’ll be offended and complain about it.

Service with a smile?

Such absurdity.

©Britt H.

Thank you for reading this.

If you’d like to support my writing — you can consider buying me a coffee here. Any support holds immense significance for a disabled neurodivergent like me.

Hello, I'm Britt.

You may have come across my body of work on different platforms—like my Substack but I’m excited to start this new chapter here on Paragraph.

For me, writing isn’t just my craft; it’s my sole way of working. As someone navigating multiple chronic illnesses with frequent medical treatments at various hospitals and clinics, my routine often leaves me with little energy or capacity for much else.

As an autistic individual with a severe anxiety disorder, holding a conventional job is almost an impossible feat—a sad reality that is a stark contrast to how I used to be able to function. These days, even an unexpected phone call can throw me into disarray, let alone stepping out the door.

Despite these immense challenges, they have, unexpectedly, opened new doors. In a way, being chronically ill has been a blessing in disguise, granting me the space and courage to pursue writing.

You could say I’m an unknown and perpetually poor writer (not everyone can be J.K. Rowling!).

I juggle inconsistent odd remote jobs alongside the limited income my writing generates on different platforms.

Your support here helps me continue this work and truly makes all the difference as I explore new avenues.

Thank you for being here and for considering supporting my journey.

Previously published on Substack

The world is so conceited that it cares more about protecting its image and maintaining power than being transparent.

What we see isn’t what actually happened; instead, everything has been meticulously edited for presentation to the audience — to those of us not involved in the rooms where it happens. We are just spectators who have no say, expected to keep our mouths shut and watch the final cut.

We are shielded from the sheer scale of deception, the lies, the filters, and the whitewashing. Things seem so honorable on the surface.

We don’t see the threats and blackmail used to manufacture those so-called world peace deals, nor do we see the mother manipulating her children for her own benefit, the cracks in the wholesome image next door, or the enviable life someone else is curating online.

True peace is rarely a handshake; it’s often the result of some party being forced into a corner. There’s always a sacrificial lamb somewhere.

Anything that fails to suit the presenter’s agenda is simply blackout or dropped. Anything that makes somebody up there look bad will be treated as if it never existed, even though it’s the truth.

Perhaps they are treating us like preschoolers, believing everything must be polished for our eyes; they want to spare us from the gory mechanics of how it’s actually done.

Instead, we are expected to digest a specific narrative with a positive attitude —which really means keeping our hands down and asking no questions, just eating whatever is put on our plate.

Time is ticking and things need to move on the conveyor belt; people just want to get paid for their time, whether they actually do the job or not.

Like a teacher rushing to end a class the moment the bell rings so the next lesson can begin, they don’t care if you understand the lesson or not — they just want a smooth shift.

After all, we shouldn’t make people’s jobs any harder than they already are, right?

Perhaps if we put away our critical thinking, we wouldn’t feel so much stress. We could just kick back, take off our shoes, and read fiction as if it were the best book in the world, since the real world feels like a lie anyway.

We could practice suspending belief — applauding the person holding someone else’s trophy like they deserved it.

With a milky latte and a petit sweet mini, I could pretend I’m far away in that untouched land —praying that the quiet there holds, and that we can extend whatever peace we have left a little longer before the reality breaks through.

©Britt H.

Thank you for reading this.

If you’d like to support my writing — you can consider buying me a coffee here. Any support holds immense significance for a disabled neurodivergent like me.

Hello, I'm Britt.

You may have come across my body of work on different platforms—like my Substack but I’m excited to start this new chapter here on Paragraph.

For me, writing isn’t just my craft; it’s my sole way of working. As someone navigating multiple chronic illnesses with frequent medical treatments at various hospitals and clinics, my routine often leaves me with little energy or capacity for much else.

As an autistic individual with a severe anxiety disorder, holding a conventional job is almost an impossible feat—a sad reality that is a stark contrast to how I used to be able to function. These days, even an unexpected phone call can throw me into disarray, let alone stepping out the door.

Despite these immense challenges, they have, unexpectedly, opened new doors. In a way, being chronically ill has been a blessing in disguise, granting me the space and courage to pursue writing.

You could say I’m an unknown and perpetually poor writer (not everyone can be J.K. Rowling!).

I juggle inconsistent odd remote jobs alongside the limited income my writing generates on different platforms.

Your support here helps me continue this work and truly makes all the difference as I explore new avenues.

Thank you for being here and for considering supporting my journey.

Previously published on Substack