On Responding To Invitations

I never respond to invitations. It just smacks of desperation. The only event I am certain to attend is my funeral, and I hope to arrive very, very late.

Excerpt from The Hod King
by Josiah Bancroft

 

Cagey

I was a teenager, and I was working the night shift at a psychiatric hospital. All of the patients were tucked away in their rooms, and I was finishing up my notes in the logs while chatting with the nurse. I don't remember what we were chatting about or why she said it, but I remember it was the first time I had ever been called "cagey". I remember laughing and asking what that meant. I even remember writing a poem entitled "Feeling Kinda Cagey" sometime later, although I unfortunately lost the poem long ago.

Of all the words that have been used to describe me over the years, I could at least appreciate this one for the visuals it evoked. Perhaps I do cage myself up in a way, and even if my cages are ones that I impose on myself, I suppose they're still cages of a sort.

But with my cages, at least I hold the keys. I can choose to sometimes peek out.

 

Let Them Enjoy My Introversion

Lately I've been wondering if I've grown too old to care how many times a day people make note of my quietness (among other such things). Does it bother me any more?

Maybe I'm numb to it now, but it still happens as much as ever. Really, it's crazy.

Most recently, after I asked about some colleagues overseas, questioning whether they were excited about taking on a new project or not -- because, to me, they appeared irritated -- I was told that, yes, they were very excited, and that it's just a cultural thing. They're like the Japanese, I was told, very reluctant to express themselves. And then another colleague chimed in and said, "Oh, so, they're very much like Zeri."

Or, when I decline to join colleagues for lunch outings (which -- to be fair -- I do try to join in on every so often), someone will joke about how much I dislike them or about how mysterious I am. My colleagues like to propose ridiculous theories regarding my taciturnity, such as me being in the witness protection program, or that I'm an undercover agent, or worse things.

Most of the time now, I embrace these images. Let them enjoy my introversion. I do.

But, now and then, I hear people talk about other so-called-introverts, and I'm reminded about why I should care. I still hear people say things like, "He started out as an introvert, but then he overcame his shyness whenever he chose to." And then I cringe inside, because there's nothing to overcome. There's nothing to improve. And I want to rant... but I won't.

Such things remind me that I'm not too old to care. As much as I embrace my introversion, and as much enjoyment as I (and others) get out of it, there are still too many people who see it as something to be fixed.

 

When Parties Become Bummers

I've been feeling inadequate lately. I mean, more than usual.

I was at a holiday work party, and a friend told me that he didn't trust me as much as he once did. Apparently, what started this feeling of his was my avoidance of the monthly office birthday celebrations. Somehow he got the idea that I had promised to attend them all, as if that mattered, and because I haven't attended for ages his respect for me has diminished.

The whole thing is silly, but it cut me to learn that my friendships were so easily lessened.

He told me that he doesn't know me anymore, and that I should subject myself to the office birthday celebrations so that people could know me better. It reminded me of a quote that I heard in a show once:

"There's a selfishness to the silence of the cowboy. It forces others to carry the conversation."

At face value, I agree with this. Everyone is selfish in his own way. But no one, not even the silent ones, are forcing anyone else to carry a conversation. That's a choice. If you feel forced, then don't do it. If you want to get to know me, then talk with me. Don't make me attend some ridiculous office birthday party. I want to get to know my friends better, but it isn't going to happen there.

I often feel that the situation is hopeless. But this is what I need to accept. It's difficult to find a balance between too much and not enough in the friendship domain, or anywhere else for that matter. The very act of trying to find a balance is a selfish thing, and everyone does it. I'm not the only one being selfish, and I need to accept that I'm not going to live in an ideal world: ever. If I can get close, that would be amazing.

Until then, I've got to stop from feeling that I'm not good enough. I'll never be what everyone else wants.

 

Bursting Inside

Rarely am I as boisterous as those around me. I decline to take front stage unless there's a need for it. For a long time I worried that my lack of boisterousness was interpreted as a lack of enthusiasm, or -- worse -- as a lack of conviction, as if I couldn't truly mean it without saying it loudly. But I am enthusiastic... in my own quiet way. When I'm bursting with joy, a warmth fills my chest, my face radiates, I tense up with excited energy, and I'm often paralyzed by the enormity of my feelings. It doesn't need to burst from my mouth in order for it to erupt from within me. I don't need to voice it in order to be certain that it's there.

I realize, of course, that there's something to be said about expressing myself to others, that it's a good thing. It doesn't need to be boisterous, though: it just needs to be true.

 

Better Descriptors

"Hand me that book," Vivian says. She takes the hardbound green volume, with gold lettering and a line drawing of a girl with abundant red hair in a chignon on the front, and opens it. "Ah, yes, I remember," she says. "I was almost exactly the heroine's age when I read this for the first time. A teacher gave it to me -- my favorite teacher. You know, Miss Larsen." She leafs through the book slowly, stopping at a page here and there. "Anne talks so much, doesn't she? I was much shyer than that." She looks up. "What about you?"

"Sorry, I haven't read it," Molly says.

"No, no. I mean, were you shy as a girl? What am I saying, you're still a girl. But I mean when you were young?"

"Not exactly shy. I was -- quiet."

"Circumspect," Vivian says. "Watchful."

Molly turns these words over in her mind. Circumspect? Watchful? Is she? There was a time after her father died and after she was taken away, or her mother was taken away -- it's hard to know which came first, or if they happened at the same time -- that she stopped talking altogether. Everyone was talking at and about her, but nobody asked her opinion, or listened when she gave it. So she stopped trying. It was during this period that she would wake in the night and get out of bed to go to her parents' room, only to realize, standing in the hall, that she had no parents.

"Well, you're not exactly effervescent now, are you?" Vivian says. "But I saw you outside earlier when Jack dropped you off, and your face was" -- Vivian lifts her knobby hands, splaying her fingers -- "all lit up. You were talking up a storm."

"Were you spying on me?"

"Of course! How else am I going to find out anything about you?"

Excerpt from Orphan Train
by Christina Baker Kline

---

What I like about this passage, among other things, is that the word "shy" is replaced with two others: "circumspect" and "watchful" -- two words that are immeasurably more appropriate for introverts than "shy". One of these days, I'm going to compile a list of words that are more accurate in their descriptiveness. Maybe none of them alone will fit perfectly, but perhaps a combination would do nicely.

 

Deflection: A Strategy For The Quiet

Because this was what Ove had learned: if one didn't have anything to say, one had to find something to ask. If there was one thing that made people forget to dislike one, it was when they were given the opportunity to talk about themselves.

Excerpt from A Man Called Ove
by Fredrik Backman

---

It took a long time for me to learn to talk with others competently, and I can't deny that one of the first and best strategies I learned was to ask questions; in other words, I learned how to deflect. At first, I didn't even know how to do that well. I didn't know what types of questions to ask, or how best to phrase them. Some of the hardest situations were ones in which -- not only did I not have anything to say -- I couldn't think of anything to ask in response to what others had said.

I eventually learned, partly by listening in on other conversations, but also by paying better attention and being prepared. What's more, I found that I enjoyed asking questions. It's a strategy worth learning if you're planning to be in the company of others, but it's also a useful skill all on its own. Understanding others was a great way to begin understanding myself -- both what I am and what I'm not.

Nowadays, having little to say is less of an issue for me than having too many questions to ask. I guess anything can be overdone. Still, even if I don't care as much about whether others are comfortable with my silence, I find it invaluable to be able to join in when I want. And in those cases, being able to deflect will always be handy.

 

On Getting Fined For Wordiness

In my last annual review at work, my team leader said that if there was an area where I was lacking, it was that I could be taking more ownership in my projects. I didn't agree, but what could I say? I sometimes feel that I'm the only one taking ownership, and other times I feel like I'm begging for the opportunity.

Lately, though, I've been taking so much ownership that my days have been filled with the kind of electricity that accompanies those on the verge of a nervous breakdown. I still avoid meetings when I can, quite intentionally, but nowadays it seems like I talk with everyone. I talked with my team leader today, and it was one talk out of far-too-many. I was asking him to help out on an upcoming project, and in that moment I realized that I was taking ownership, possibly more so than he was comfortable with. I was enlisting my team leader to work for me, and while I was chatting with him, I remembered his comments from my last annual review; and then my jaw started to lock up.

I was suddenly overwhelmed. I felt like I'd exceeded my annual limit for spoken words, and like I was starting to get charged extra; in fact, I was getting fined for going overboard with my wordiness. I was finding it hard to breathe.

In moments like these, I continue as best as I can. I tell myself to focus, to relax. I do what I need to do, say what I need to say, and accept that I can get back to the frills later. Once I'm away and my head isn't vibrating so intensely, I find a way to recharge: I do a tiny task, one that involves no communication, and another, and another. Soon enough, the emergency subsides.

Although I love taking ownership, does it need to involve so many people? Can't I just get things done?

 

On Being Family

I'm in Chicago, at a hotel, and I'm having trouble winding down for the night. When I get back to Seattle, I foresee quite a bit of downtime for recovery.

I'm here visiting family. It's been good to see them, but it's also been overwhelming. Seeing family is normally tiring after a few days, but my family in Chicago is a special case. Imagine twenty or more of the most extreme extroverts unintentionally ganging up on you, all of them coming and going, or sitting and chatting, speaking words faster than your brain can process them, all at the same time and not necessarily in English, most of them taking turns talking with you, each of them deserving the title of "Comedian" -- if you could only focus hard enough or listen at supersonic speeds (they always laugh at the jokes thirty seconds before you even realize a joke is being told) -- and that's not counting their kids who are running back and forth and screaming funny nonsense, arms flailing, the oddballs half naked; and you're giving hugs hello as some relatives arrive and hugs goodbye as some leave, many whom you've never met before, and if you're not paying attention, you might get knocked over by a little one planting her arms around one of your legs. Then, as you take your leave for the night, your grandmother -- standing up to hug you even though she struggles to stand at all -- tells you that she loves you, that she's glad that you came, and glad that she could see you again before she dies.

I'm not good enough family for any one of them, but I am glad to have them, nonetheless.

Tomorrow night, my aunt is having everyone over. I'm not optimistic about my ability to participate in two-way conversations. I harbored a small amount of optimism before I came to Chicago; I was sure there were meaningful questions to ask, things to learn about my family, etc., but now I can barely secure a steady train of thought. Writing these paragraphs was like trying to get a frightened, panicked crowd organized into a single-file line. My brain is fried.

I'll probably stutter and blabber tomorrow (unless there are drinks, of course -- in which case I'll probably stutter in the most eloquent of ways). Regardless, I'll be myself, and it'll be no surprise to anyone; they are family, after all. Earlier, my mom was telling a story to my aunt about how, on occasion, she accidentally calls one of my nephews by my name because he reminds her of me. My aunt asked, "Why? Because he's so quiet?"

Yes: they know me a little, at least.

I don't need to be the best uncle, or the best cousin, or the best nephew, or the best grandson, or the best brother, or the best son. But I wouldn't mind letting my family know that I care. I hope they can tell, even if I'm showing them in my own limited way.

 

On Shells And Happiness

Auberon put down the glass, slowly, thinking. "Do you think," he said, "that people are happier when they're alone, or with other people?"

She carried his glass and plate to the sink. "I don't know," she said. "I guess... Well, what do you think?"

"I don't know," he said. "I just wondered if... " What he wondered was whether it was a fact everyone knew, every grown-up anyway: that everyone is of course happiest alone, or the reverse, whichever it was. "I guess I'm happier with other people," he said.

"Oh yes?" She smiled; since she faced the sink, he couldn't see her. "That's nice," she said. "An extrovert."

"I guess."

"Well," Alice said softly, "I just hope you don't creep back in your shell again."

He was already on his way out, stuffing extra cookies in his pockets, and didn't stop, but a strange window had suddenly been flung open within him. Shell? Had he been in a shell? And -- odder still -- had he been seen to be in one, was it common knowledge? He looked through this window and saw himself for a moment, for the first time, as others saw him. Meanwhile his feet had taken him out the broad swinging doors of the kitchen, which grump-grumped behind him in their way, and through the raisin-odorous pantry, and out through the stillness of the long dining room, going toward his imaginary ball-game.

Excerpt from Little, Big: or, The Fairies' Parliament
by John Crowley

Related: The Shell

 

The "Extreme" In Extreme Introversion

Most of us are wary of the extremes. Extreme extroverts are as questionable as extreme introverts. In either case, we might ask, "What kind of drugs are you on?" For extreme athletes, we might attribute a death wish. Look up the word "extreme" on Google, and one of the related searches you'll see is "extreme couponing". Enough said.

It's easier to understand the common ground than it is to venture towards the edge.

Last year, I was asked how I know that I'm an "extreme introvert". I thought it was an interesting question. What makes my introversion extreme? And how do I know that's what I am? These are two very philosophical questions, but I'll try not to get too deep while answering them.

Part of the reason that I use the phrase is because more and more literature is finally being published about introversion, and the topic is described in an overly generic way. It's written about in such a manner as to include most of the world. Evidently, up to fifty percent of the population falls somewhere on the introversion spectrum, meaning half of us have at least some introverted tendencies. When you consider this, you can see why I -- among others -- would try to make a distinction. I classify myself as an "extreme" introvert because my introversion seems to be amplified. It's the difference between having mild tendencies versus being very clearly introverted. Simply put, the word introvert is overused; so I've added a modifier -- if introversion means "turning inwards", then extreme introversion means "turning inwards with gusto".

But how do I know that I'm on the deep end of the introversion spectrum? There's no exact formula for measuring these things -- it's guesswork, at best. There are tests online (e.g., the Meyers-Briggs test) that tell us how introverted we are, as a rough percentage, but the best test is experience. I know how I am in comparison to others because I spend time with people. I put myself in situations that allow me to make comparisons. I socialize now and then. You might say that I experiment.

How do I know? I know because I've tried being like everyone else, and I've also allowed myself to stop trying and to just be me. The difference is huge; in fact, the difference is extreme.

 

Toasted

Although I tend to avoid work outings as much as I avoid mosquitoes, I do find myself attending now and then. The most recent outing was a going-away lunch for a coworker who'd found a better job. There were a lot of us at that outing, and our table stretched beyond the capacity of my eyesight; I couldn't see the other end.

The guest of honor gave a speech at some point. He paid homage to our boss, he reminisced about the good and the bad times, and he poked fun at the lot of us -- including me. That part, of course, went like this:

"...and I'll always remember my attempts to get Zeri to say more than thirty words."

Normally, I might take issue with such nonsense. But on this occasion, I could only nod and acknowledge my coworker's sense of humor; afterall, it was a little bit flattering to be mentioned in a toast.

A glass should always be raised for the introvert.

 

Dear Zeri: On Getting Others To Understand

Thursday, July 25, 2013

I just found your blog about being an extreme introvert and wanted to say thanks for sharing. I'm feeling particularly misunderstood these days.

One thing I'm constantly trying to figure out is how to get people to understand and respect me being an introvert... I've realized that's never going to happen except for people I'm very close with. So I need to learn more coping mechanisms. I wonder if you'd consider writing something about coping in uncomfortable environments (I didn't see if you've already written about that). For example, I just returned from a 10 day vacation with my in-laws (9 people total). I pretty much had a meltdown by the second day because I was getting basically no alone time and everyone was talking all the time at the same time. I even got a really bad cold which I'm sure was related to the stress. I started hiding out as much as possible and I'm sure everyone thinks I hate them... which almost seems true because I find it so stressful to be around them. I'm not sure how to appropriately deal with that situation. I need to get better at being able to deal with these situations I can't control. Any tips?

Thanks again,

L

---

Sunday, July 28, 2013

Hi, L --

Thanks for writing, and my apologies for the late reply. I only check in sporadically, but I suppose it's nearly time for another entry. I have to confess, though, that I try not to give out too much advice on my own blog. I try to keep it more personal. I do know of several forums that have great advice for introverts, though. I'll forward some if you're interested.

That said, I can very much relate to the situations you've described; while I don't have any standard tips to offer, I can tell you what my own experience has been.

First, about the vacation-related stress: that sort of thing happens to me, too. During situations like those, it feels like every muscle is tense, and like I'm ready to pounce on anyone who comes near. Being stuck like that for too long can definitely take its toll on your health. I've found only two ways to cope in those scenarios. If at all possible, the easiest thing to do is to get away. Make time for yourself, even if it seems odd to others. Step out to the bathroom, but go for a walk, instead. The other thing that helps is if you can be honest with others. I know I've struggled with that in the past; it's hard to be honest without being cruel, and so I often avoid saying anything. But if you can calm yourself enough to say what you're feeling in a reasonable manner, others will often understand. Even if they don't make less noise all of the time, they'll at least understand if you need to get away from them. And they'll understand that you aren't really hating them -- that you're just having a hard time dealing with so much stimulation.

There is a third thing that helps in those situations, but it's the one that takes the most time: it's practice. It may never become entirely easy, but I think we eventually find ways to zone it all out. Ways to calm or distract ourselves. It still takes a toll, in the meantime, but it gets easier not to burst while we're in the midst of it all.

As for respect and understanding, those things are fleeting. Not even fellow introverts will always understand you. We don't come across introverts as often, and so we act towards the rest of the world just like anyone else does; thus, we often treat each other, including our fellow introverts, in the ways that give us such a hard time. Friends will falter sometimes, but at least they're friends. All you can expect is that they'll try to be as understanding towards you as you'll be towards them.

Hopefully some of this helps.

Thanks again for writing. Good or bad, it always helps a little to know that others deal with the same things as me.

Be well,

... Zeri

---

Friday, August 2, 2013

Zeri,

Thanks for your response. I really appreciate it. It's nice to feel understood. Sometimes I feel like such a freak when it seems everyone else can cope with "normal" situations so much better than I can.

I understand not wanting to give advice but I appreciate your personal experiences. I often do the thing where I pretend I'm just going to the bathroom or something and then disappear for long periods of time... I think that gives a bad impression, although often I think people don't even notice I'm gone since I'm sort of invisible even when I'm there.

The thing I really want to work on is being more honest and straightforward with people. I've tried this with my mother-in-law. I will say to her, "I'm just feeling really overwhelmed by all the noise and stimulation and I require a lot of quiet, alone time." Her response is always, "Me too! It's driving me crazy... blah, blah, blah!!!" To which I always want to respond, "No I don't think you do get it because YOU are the one I find the most overwhelming to be around!!!" But I don't say that because I think it will hurt her feelings. It's interesting to me that she claims to feel overwhelmed by the chaos and yet she's the biggest contributor to that chaos. At that point I know she thinks she understands how I feel but clearly doesn't because I'm trying to ask her to not talk to me, that I need to be left alone to recover, but she takes it as an opportunity to talk to me even more. Clearly my passive requests are not accomplishing what I want them to. I'm not sure if I need to be even more direct and say, "YOU are talking to me too much and I can't deal with it anymore." If someone said that to me it would really hurt my feelings. But maybe sometimes I need to just stand up for myself and my needs even if it does hurt other people's feelings.

Happy Friday,

L

---

Wednesday, August 7, 2013

Hi L --

Yes, it might help to try asserting yourself more. Like I wrote last time, it can be challenging to figure out how to do so without being cruel, but it's important to try, I think, especially if you're becoming stressed out on a regular basis. Friends of mine (and probably many others) use a method of 1) saying something kind first, then 2) describing the problem or stating what is needed, and 3) finishing up with another nice statement. Here's an article that describes something similar as a way of being assertive and nice at the same time:

http://www.positivityblog.com/index.php/2008/05/05/six-steps-to-become-assertive-and-nice/

Personally, I find such steps to be a bit disingenuous; on the other hand, they seem to work well in many cases. You could start by telling your mother-in-law that you like talking with her, and hearing her stories, and getting to know her, etc.; then tell her that, while all that is true, you need a break from it occasionally, and that it's overwhelming; and then, perhaps, finish up by saying that you appreciate her understanding.

That said, she may not ever really get how overwhelmed you become. She may not understand how you are, but it's worth getting her to understand what you need.

In any case, I wish you luck. Situations like that can be tricky to negotiate.

Be well,

... Zeri

 

The Danger In Shielding Oneself

In a story I recently read, Pandora's Star, the human race becomes concerned about a shield -- an apparent force field -- that envelopes another solar system. Why would anyone need to be shielded unless they were a threat? If the shield is a defense, then -- so the reasoning goes -- they're likely to go on the offense.

Although it's only a story, this sort of reasoning is applied to people like me on a fairly regular basis. I've tried to understand it over the years. If I spend too much time alone, or if I don't spill my guts to everyone who wants them spilt, it tends to make people uncomfortable. Liking my privacy has never been an acceptable answer. I think the reasoning goes like this:

I can be private as long as I'm not noticed. If I choose to be in the company of others, or to make myself noticed, then I'm asking to be questioned. If I choose to remain quiet in company, or to remain apart, shielding myself from others, so to speak, then I must be hiding something. And if I'm hiding something, then there must be something troubling me; anything troubling me is likely to become dangerous for others later on.

Or, at least, that's how I imagine the onset of fear progresses.

Not everyone minds having a quiet person around. But it's a rare find. It's a kind and accepting nature that allow others to just be -- to join when we want, to talk when we have something to say, to stick around even when we're not entirely involved.

A shield isn't necessarily a danger. Sometimes it's just a way of life.

 

Relating To Loners

Years ago, I came across the book Party of One: The Loners' Manifesto, and I fell in love with it immediately. I responded strongly to it, especially to the introduction. Whenever I reread the introduction, I feel my heart leap and my eyes well up.

But I wonder if my response is helped out by my tendency to transpose concepts. Although the book is written for loners, I find it easy to replace the word "loner" with the word "introvert" in my mind's eye, and the feelings described in the book still pertain to me. They are still incredibly accurate. They describe how I've felt for most of my life in a way that I could never have said better. All it takes is to transpose "introvert" for "loner", two concepts that are not equivalent. Granted, the book is also incredibly wrong-headed about many things; yet, it still manages to get to the core.

I wish everyone would read the introduction to this book. It's powerful. Here are some quotes that I like from it; when necessary, I've transposed the aforementioned words:

---

The premise, the presumption implicit in any crowd, from concert hall to kaffee klatsch to office party, that shared experiences are the only ones that count. The only experiences toward which everyone aspires. The only real ones... proved -- what? That anything worth doing is not done alone.

---

This way to be, this way we are, gets us into trouble. We are a minority, the community that is anticommunity. The culture that will not on principle join hands. Remote on principle from one another -- this is our charter and we would not have it any other way -- each of us swims alone through a sea of social types. Talkers. Lunchers. Touchers.

---

We form a chorus, but the oddest chorus in the world, a willful antichorus. In saying entirely different things, usually not saying them aloud to anyone at all, we are saying a lot.

---

Does it matter how I got this way? Not if I am happy. I am. [Introverts] need no more to be cured, nor can be cured -- the word is gross in this usage -- than gays and lesbians. Or people who love golf.

---

I find myself nodding in agreement when I reread the introduction. Society doesn't always get introverts, but we will thrive in our own ways. We'll figure out that it's worth being ourselves, even if it takes a bit more work to get there.

 

Idle, Commonplace, Wishful Thinking

What would the world be like if we all took care with the words we spoke? What if we all said what we meant, or tried at least? What if we listened more and said less? What if our words were important?

 

On What We Practice

An old friend once said that he used to be quiet like me, but that he eventually got over it and became more sociable. He pushed me to do the same, and told me I could change, as if introversion is something to be cured, something to get over, or something to work against. I was taken aback by his statement. I remember thinking at the time that he should have known better than to say something so insensitive.

My friend knew about prejudices. He faced at least two on a regular basis, one that he could hide from, and one that he couldn't: to be clear, he was both gay and black, and he grew up dealing with these two, natural "hardships". He was also my boss, and we worked in an environment geared towards multiculturalism. As I said, he should have known better. He was responsible for fostering acceptance at work, and he yearned for acceptance in his personal life. I didn't understand how he could be so blind when it came to me.

(As a side note, I should say that it may be far-fetched to claim that there's such a thing as a culture of introversion; yet, I can't help but think that there is. There are common misconceptions about introverts, as well as a similar way of being mistreated. We may not band together, but we still share a lot.)

I was more open-minded back then. Though I wanted to argue the point with my friend, I opted to reflect on his, instead. He seemed to think that -- with enough practice -- I could change. I, in turn, wanted to ask him if he could become less gay with enough practice.

I knew the answers intuitively, but that didn't stop me from trying to see if I really could change. So whenever I went out, I practiced being more social. I tried to understand what it was like to be what everyone else was. I tried to blend in, and to appear unfazed. I tried to participate, and to be "normal". Others who do this call themselves "practiced extroverts". There are even manuals written about how to change from an introvert into an extrovert.

All it takes is practice, they say.

What I say is that it's sad that this is how it is. Certainly it's useful -- practical, even -- to become capable at social activities, but I think we're all encouraged too often to practice the wrong things. Why should we spend our lives making ourselves into what others want us to be? Why are we putting all of this effort into changing into something we're not?

Why don't we, instead, practice getting better at being ourselves?

 

Very Ingoing

They described themselves as outgoing, a term he heard frequently. "Very outgoing," some said, perhaps to distinguish themselves from the rest. He figured there was something appealing to it. Was it a more prized quality? A more desirable one?

He wanted to introduce himself as ingoing, instead, and he wondered how it would play out. He'd say it proudly. They'd think he was joking, but he wouldn't participate in the laughter. He'd smile and wait for them to understand that he meant it.

Would they think less of him afterwards? Would they pity him? Or would his confession be as celebrated as any other?

No matter the answer to his questions, he knew that he -- for one -- would cherish knowing that there were others like him, that there were ingoers and outgoers and everything in between.

There are prized ways of being, he mused, that we never hear about.

 

On Fences And Freedom

"That backpack's like your symbol of freedom," he comments.

"Guess so," I say.

"Having an object that symbolizes freedom might make a person happier than actually getting the freedom it represents."

"Sometimes," I say.

"Sometimes," he repeats. "You know, if they had a contest for the world's shortest replies, you'd win hands down."

"Perhaps."

"Perhaps," Oshima says, as if fed up. "Perhaps most people in the world aren't trying to be free, Kafka. They just think they are. It's all an illusion. If they really were set free, most people would be in a real bind. You'd better remember that. People actually prefer not being free.

"Including you?"

"Yeah. I prefer being unfree, too. Up to a point. Jean-Jacques Rousseau defined civilization as when people build fences. A very perceptive observation. And it's true -- all civilization is the product of a fenced-in lack of freedom. The Australian Aborigines are the exception, though. They managed to maintain a fenceless civilization until the seventeenth century. They're dyed-in-the-wool free. They go where they want, when they want, doing what they want. Their lives are a literal journey. Walkabout is a perfect metaphor for their lives. When the English came and built fences to pen in their cattle, the Aborigines couldn't fathom it. And, ignorant to the end of the principle at work, they were classified as dangerous and antisocial and were driven away, to the outback. So I want you to be careful. The people who build high, strong fences are the ones who survive the best. You deny that reality only at the risk of being driven into the wilderness yourself."

Excerpt from Kafka on the Shore
by Haruki Murakami

---

I quoted this entire passage because there are several things that I enjoy in it.

For one thing, I can relate to the backpack metaphor. I used to carry a backpack with me everywhere, even to work each day. And it was a symbol of freedom. I felt that I could go anywhere as long as I had the few things that I carried within it: notepads and pens, a camera, and a book to read. But going "anywhere" mostly meant being able to escape -- to go off on my own somewhere and read or write. That kind of freedom felt comfortable. So maybe in that sense, freedom was a safety net.

Another thing I can relate to is the making of short replies. I've previously noted how often my quietness has been mentioned. In the past, other words have been used to describe me, as well, among them "monosyllabic". I used words sparingly because I didn't think anything more was necessary, and I didn't know what else there was to say. Being terse wasn't always my way of cutting conversations short. It was just my way of being direct and straightforward. It took a while for me to realize that others wanted a little more in order to feel that I was engaged and interested. Giving extra is something that I'm still learning to do.

There's also the idea of fences that I can relate to. Sometimes I wonder if being introverted is just another way of building fences. I know that a lot of people see it that way; I've been accused of walling off the rest of the world, or of walling myself in. Personally, I prefer my own interpretation; I'm certainly not committed to anyone else's perspective. In this case, I'm not sure whether there's more freedom in the outside world or my inner world. I'm not sure which is wilder, and which is safer. I think it's different for each of us. We all build fences in different ways, and we all find freedom in our own ways, too. I have a fence, of course, but not in the way that others see it. I think of it like this: there's only room for a small community in my world, and so I'm naturally more exclusive. I admire those who can include everyone, but that's not the case for me. While I love to explore and to be free, I often feel the freest when I'm lost in my own head. So, for me, perhaps fencing myself off from the "wilderness" would mean not letting myself escape to the inside.

Finally, I can relate to melting into the scenery, and to acting natural so as not to be noticed. Acting "natural" really means acting unnatural, though. It means acting like everyone else, because that's the surest way to go unnoticed. It's another kind of freedom.

The line between fences and freedom isn't always clear. What matters in the end, I think, is how we define these things for ourselves.

 

Knowing What It Means

Everyone is different; yet, some are more keenly aware of it. Some are treated differently. Because you know what that's like, you have a responsibility to those who are also different. You owe it to them to be as understanding as you can be. Even though you may not have always received the same understanding, you know that we all deserve it.

And no matter how much you learn about the traits that make you like others, you're always going to be your own kind of person. You're going to be different even from those who are most like you. Realizing that you weren't alone, and that you weren't the only one going through such things, was just a tiny part of accepting that it's okay to be you. It was always okay.

Others might not understand your differences, but I think it's important that they also accept them along with you. Especially the ones that matter: the ones that you choose to care about. They, too, should know what it means.