Introvert

It's official: I am an introvert. Conclusive proof has been provided this week in two ways:

1. I've been spending a lot of time with an extravert, and their flood of chatter and (attempted) direction of my actions has worn me out -- it's like being under a hailstorm of noise that won't let up. I fix my grin and grit my teeth, but it's hard work not to say please be quiet for a bit.


2. Being in the course environment all day has meant that it's difficult to find time and space for myself: this makes me realise that being with other people all the time drains energy out of me. (Look like Jung got that energising/sapping thing right).

I was thinking about this this morning, as I sat in the hotel conservatory, watching the wet snow splosh down onto the wet glass roof: I've always felt like this -- at big (or small) social gatherings when I was a kid, I was always looking forward to them being over, and to getting back to my house, my room, where I could be alone with a book, or a favourite toy. For a long time, in my teens and later, this preference made me feel as though there was something wrong with me -- cultural and peer pressures are to be sociable and outgoing. I remember going on a boozy weekend to a wind-swept holiday camp with a load of fellow shift-workers in the early 1980s. I drank bitter heroically in the seafront pub, having a wonderful time talking, laughing, and putting all the Abba songs on the jukebox to irritate the 'hip' boys. We walked back to the holiday camp in a straggly crocodile, and I played my usual crowd-pleasing clown role by jumping into the swimming pool, fully clothed, and full of beer (for extra buoyancy).

An hour or so later, a little switch tripped in my head, and I knew that I needed to be on my own for a bit. So I said goodnight and headed off for my plywood and bitumen chalet. After a while (in bed, after towelling myself dry), I could hear giggling voices outside, encouraging me to come outside and stop being such a miserable git. But I'd had enough extraverting for one day, so I carried on dozing.

Did my peers -- my friends -- respect my desire for the introvert's quiet space? Did they fuck. Next thing I knew, I woke up in my bed, but outside the chalet, on the strip of grass between the blocks of buildings. The sky's getting light, the birds are chirruping, and my hair is damp with dew.

That kind of made me feel like my desire for peace was somehow abnormal. I'm over it now, though, and I know that it's OK to do what makes me feel comfortable and happy.

I don't know how they got me outside without waking me up. Respeck.

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