My Life as (Less of an) Introvert

 

As I wrote in a previous post, I am an introvert.  There are few people with whom I have felt comfortable enough to be honest about what I am really thinking, let alone what I am really feeling.  Two years of therapy a few years back helped get me on the track of being more honest with the people in my life about what was REALLY going on with me.  I learned to share difficult and “negative” things and learned that people still loved me.  They didn’t think anything less of me.  They wanted to help me.

Since beginning my blogs back in August (about 2 months ago), I’ve noticed some really wonderful things happen.  First, it is a lot more fun than I expected.  Even on my blogs that don’t have much readership, I still enjoy writing.  Second, I am making meaningful connections with other bloggers.  That’s something I hadn’t expected.  I didn’t really know how the blog world worked.  I was pleasantly surprised to find how interactive it is and how supportive folks are of each other.  Third, there have been several moments where, as I am typing something, I make a connection…kind of like an “aha” moment, normally the kind I would have in therapy.  The process of writing and sorting through my history is allowing me to make seemingly obvious connections that I have not had the objectivity to make for myself…until now.

Fourth, but not last, is that I noticed I am being more honest with more people.  I was having lunch with coworkers last Friday and we were talking about family dynamics and family secrets.  I had a story to share.  In the past, I would have sat there without saying a word.  Instead, I stepped out of my comfort zone and shared a story.  It was more serious than the other stories shared, but it was the story I thought of when I heard my co-worker’s stories.  I’m realizing it’s okay to say things, even if they aren’t as “positive” as what others have to say. 

I made sure to end the story on the most positive note possible.  I shared the story very matter-of-factly, partly because I have been writing about my family history and am feeling more comfortable with it.  It’s my family history, for better or worse.  I have been in situations like this at least a hundred times in the past, where people are telling stories and I don’t feel like it’s okay to tell mine.  It looks like those days are coming to an end.

Life as an Introvert

Overall, I am a pretty quiet person.  I have always been more of a listener than a talker.  Over the years, with the best of intentions, friends have tried to coax me out of my shell.  Then, during those rare times when my brain and my mouth actually worked together in harmony, I overwhelmed people with the quantity, intensity, and speed of my thought process.  Although my tendency to be so quiet is sometimes frustrating and unsettling to the people around me, at least they don’t worry about my sanity when I’m quiet.  So, for years, I took the safer road and didn’t talk much.

The safe road has been fascinating.  I’m quiet, have good eye contact, and am an intent listener.  I have a way of putting people at ease…or maybe I make them uncomfortable…either way, I tend to have an “effect” on people.  People spill their guts to me.  I’m not just talking about friends.  I’m talking about acquaintances…and complete strangers. 

What has struck me most over the years of listening to people is how alone each person feels in whatever it is they are experiencing or have experienced in the past.  I have become, over the years, a walking encyclopedia of second-hand human experience.  Probably hundreds of people have confided their secrets to me…and not a single secret has shocked me.  Well, I take that back.  The extent of the physical, sexual, and emotional abuse so many people have endured shocks me.

The downside of being such a good listener is that I never learned to fully share myself with other people.  After hearing so many stories, my story didn’t feel as compelling, interesting, or worthwhile as other people’s stories.  I gave into my childhood tendency of empathizing with other people to the detriment of embracing and validating my own experience.  Fortunately, I finally found a good therapist and over the course of almost two years of therapy (twice a week), I told my story to another person.

I finally allowed another person to listen to me.  I finally took center stage, even though I don’t like being the center of attention.  I shared my issues with someone else.  Unlike the people I’ve listened to over the years, I knew I was not alone.  Instead, I had to learn how to stop discounting my own experiences just because they weren’t always as horrible as other people’s experiences.  The traumas I experienced growing up in no way pushed the boundaries of human experience, but they were traumatic to me.  They hurt me, disabled me, and affect me to this day.