Please don’t talk to me. I’m begging you.
Last week, after griping about having to eat dinner with someone, I asked a friend of mine how often he canceled plans with people.
“Pretty rarely,” he said
“I like getting meals with others,” he said.
“Hanging out and talking to people is fun,” he said.
“Get behind me, Satan,” I said.
See, I bring books into restaurants. I regularly fake being asleep. My meals are often spent alone in the library, hiding behind piles of books. I put in headphones with nothing playing so that people think I can’t hear them.
In my head, I’ve always known that not everyone’s like me. Some people enjoy socializing. They go to parties. They thrive in groups. They enjoy getting together with people.
So I’d like to apologize to all those people I’ve canceled plans with. The list of victims is long and varied. The lies and excuses range from somewhat believable to wildly obvious cop-outs.
It’s not personal. (Usually.)
It’s not that I don’t like you. (For the most part.)
It’s just that I don’t wanna.
There’s no nice way of saying that, I know.
You signed up for this when you befriended an introvert. You like to talk. And my preferred manner of socializing? Reading in silence. Or studying together in silence. Or watching a movie in — you guessed it — silence.
Don’t get me wrong, I can talk. But it’s certainly not my preferred manner of communication. (I write, remember?)
It’s just, talking takes so much energy. There are so many unknowns. It’s a lot like algebra.
[a + b(c²)]/d= ?
a: what you say.
b: how you really feel.
c: what you want me to say.
d: what your eyes are trying to tell me.
So what’s the answer? How do I end up responding?
Well, it’s math, and I’m a writing major. So I’ll probably end up sitting at the kitchen table sobbing until 2am.
Before coming to college, I didn’t care that I wasn’t good at socializing. I was bad at basketball too. Oh well.
But then you throw college life into the pot. Add a dash of talkative roommates .Stir in outgoing friends. Season with salt and serve hot.
Suddenly life tastes a lot different.
Suddenly I’m the odd man out.
Take my best friend Laura for example. She extroverts so hard.
She thrives on human interaction, like a vampire. Except instead of blood, she feeds on others’ energy and, as she would say, “vibes.” I, in my own way, am like a vampire. I’m pale. Like to sleep. Hate going out in the daytime. Avoid most people.
My friend? She doesn’t walk. She bounds. Flits around like one of those tiny white butterflies in summertime. It makes it difficult to go anywhere with her because she stops and talks to everyone and everything. Me? I like to travel somewhere between a fast-walk and a sprint. If you wanna talk, you’re gonna have to catch me first.
Laura knows everyone. She once started a conversation over the color white. Personally, I’ve fine-tuned the art of ending conversations. I’ll be walking away before the other person even realizes I’m gone.
And while she loves to move and meet and party, I’m happy to curl up in a ball on the couch and read Carrie.
Occasionally, I get jealous that my best friend can dance around life. She’s a social butterfly and gets to gab with getting exhausted. She has the energy and ability to click with people. And it’s not just her. Most people don’t get absolutely wasted after fifteen minute small-talks.
Sometimes I wonder if something’s wrong with me. Like on weekends, when my roommates have scattered to go hang out with their boyfriends and friend groups, I’ll look around my empty living room and think, “Shouldn’t I be doing something?”
I’m twenty years old.
It’s a Saturday.
It’s 8pm.
I’m in my pjs.
And I used to kinda hate that I couldn’t be more people-y. I mean, I’ve called my mom to come pick me up from birthday parties.
It’s times like these that I need my extroverted friends the most.
They taught me that liking (or needing) my alone time isn’t a flaw. They know it doesn’t diminish my love for them. Every moment spent together carries meaning. And when I push myself to cracking and plaster on my customer service smile… well that’s not great for our friendship.
Sometimes my friends get me way better than I do.
They speak the truth when I can’t.
They edit the stupid, lie-filled stories I write for myself.
They gently coax me out of bed when I’m depleted, or better yet, crawl into bed with me.
They’ve shown me that being an introvert is kinda like working on a computer with a faulty battery. You’ve got maybe four or five hours of use before it’s time to go recharge again. Talking to people, making dinner plans, and going to events has the same effect as keeping seventeen tabs open. If I turn my brightness all the way up, that’s gonna kill the battery way faster. Not giving myself time to charge regularly leads to a melt down. And I can’t get mad when it takes me a while to warm-up.
I’ve got to be patient with myself.
This doesn’t mean I won’t stop canceling plans. Trust me. I will always do that. But rescheduling doesn’t mean I love my people any less. If anything, it creates space to love them better, because I can actually make sure I have the energy left to care well.
