introverted

I get places over an hour early to avoid a five-minute carpool.
 If I see someone I know in the grocery store, I duck behind the nearest display.
 When my phone lights up, I let it ring out.

It’s not that I dislike people- it’s that being around them is uneasy work. I plan conversations like to-do lists, rehearsing cues and questions, then derail them by talking too much or too little.

Even as a kid, when the “cool girls” let me into their circle for a while, I knew I didn’t enjoy it. I preferred being in my own world. I still do.

It’s like I give off a pheromone of awkwardness- too muchness. Sometimes my best days are the ones where I make polite conversation in the checkout line, replaying it for days: a single, perfect sliver where I nailed a social interaction.

I’m learning that it’s fine to be this way. Some people find marathons exhausting; I find small talk. And I’d be foolish to try and re-write every fibre of my being to change that.

But sometimes I wonder where the line is. The one drawn by physicians and psychologists: socially withdrawn. Being introverted is one thing; being afraid of people is another.

I recently told my boyfriend just how bad my anxiety can be. He’s seen the upsets- the wringing fingers, the teary eyes-but I’ve always left out the worst parts.

The comfort of being alone begins sweetly, especially in winter, when it’s dark early and the kettle hums. But comfort turns to necessity, and necessity hardens into norm. In December of my second year of college, I realised I hadn’t gone outside in over a month. My winter coat gathered dust. My reflection was unbearable; the idea of anyone else seeing me, unthinkable.

Every so often, those agoraphobic weeks still return. The world gets too loud, too crowded, and I retreat, hibernating like a bear.

I keep my social circle small: it’s easier to be a flaky friend to a few. I hope the ones I love know it isn’t for lack of loving them. 

I still get places early, still slip behind displays, still let the phone ring out. Some days, that’s just who I am. Other days, it’s a warning sign. I’m still learning which is which -still standing at that invisible line, wondering which side I’m on.