I Love You, Now Please Go Away
My biggest hurdle in every single relationship is that I don’t want to be around people. This is hard to admit, and I don't want anyone to misinterpret my need for seclusion with apathy. I love greatly, fully, a little too much of a lot, and this leads to self doubt about my place in the wider picture.
Over the past few years, most notably with the publication of The Power of Quiet by Susan Cain, we introverts have been very high and mighty. We’ve experienced glory on the internet with new forms of communication best suited to our sensibilities, and in many respects, we've thrived under the external pressures of an abnormal world. Some might read my work and be surprised that I have it in me to string a few words together, but here I am! It’s great to see you, truly! I love you all! Now please leave my house.
I would consider myself a selective introvert. I am very restrained in unfamiliar situations, and any form of public activity, large or small, new or old, requires lengthy recovery time. As I often remind Holden, my weekends are sacred, a period of time to make choices about my attendance and level of participation. I require at least one day of complete solitary activity. I say, "This is my Foreign Film Friday," when asked to go to a brewery like it is a normal excuse, or I will need all of Saturday to decompress if there is a pressing invitation earlier in the weekend ("Scary Film Saturday"). Sunday never counts because it follows a weekday, and I need the buffer of a morning without work obligations to fully relax.
Thank god, he is understanding of my needs, and we are very secure in our commitment to one another even with varying levels of social obligations. Never have two people been more different, yet compatible, in that regard. I think that Holden would thrive on a commune—the constant physical labor and dedication to a group mentality is really his jam—and though I tend to be the alternative thinker in the relationship, I do not think I would be as fit for a cult because cults require other people. No, I would be content to go full Walden, sitting alone in a cabin, writing about ants and bean propagation but coming home for mom to do my laundry.
I have a deep need for friendship, a desire to be wanted, included, looked at, understood, laughed at on my own terms. I love the idea of surprises and spontaneity. I love an organic night that involves a corner booth at a loud bar with friends, maybe a few strangers, peeling off the beer wrapper and trading stories back and forth, but—dear, god—please don’t make me do those things. Please don’t look at me. Don't ask me to tell that story, again. I want these moments, but I am already budgeting the energy it will require.
Can’t I love coffee dates and birthday parties in retrospect without the emotional gymnastics required to attend? Does this make me a bad person? A terrible friend? That is the last thing I want to be.
There is a lot of prep work before an event. Psyching myself up in the car, reminding myself over and over that I need and want friends, and the only way to keep said friends is to be present. I quite literally did this a few months ago before a dinner. I spoke out loud, over the radio, "You need friends. You have to go." I want to go, but I also have to go. It's very complicated, thus why I am so tired at the end of each day in a world full of people.
In the fourth grade while at the pool, I suddenly withdrew from friends mid-play. I was so overcome with having to perform out in the open (water). I was tired of playing tag and mermaid, so I did the mature thing and just swam away. I would dive underwater any time my friends swam up, and eventually, they stopped chasing, aware this was not a game.
As you know, public pools are notoriously great locations for alone time. Imagine you are the lifeguard witnessing a four foot diva yelling to her friends that she "needs her space". It wasn't the best way to go about it, and I was rightfully left in the dust when they rode their bikes home for lunch. Hours later, I begged for mercy at their jelly-sandal feet. I didn't know what came over me. It would never happen again.
It would never happen that particular way, but now I know what it was: a social depletion. An energy crisis. It's like a sugar crash. Hard and swift. When I am fed up with talking, it is time to go home because I will embarrass myself.
My friends know all this. They openly joke at my way of ending a night early. “Okay guysss,” they mirror the casual affect, the way the S lingers when I am planning my getaway. "Okay guys" is always followed with an excuse—I’m tired, I’ve got an early morning, my dog ate my homework.
I made a rather bold pronouncement earlier in the year that I would be better at communication and proactive when it came to planning get-togethers. Have I achieved this goal? I'd give myself a C+, but you would really have to ask around.
Please don't read this and assume that I hate people! People aren’t the problem. This is a classic “it’s not you, it’s me” situation. No, these are my burdens. I always plan to do better, be better. It's not always easy to be my friend. I know that, but I like to think that there is something I give to these relationships. Otherwise, I would have been dropped long ago. I will never be perfect at it. I will never be that breezy socialite bee-bopping around town from one engagement to the next, but I can be there for the ones who matter most.
I begrudgingly admit: to live is to be outside of comfort, and loving is best done with another, a few, a group, or crowd, but—please—only for a little while.