I am an Introvert.
I live right on the edge of the bubble. Just outside of the excitement, of life happening at the moment. Peeking in like a desperate window shopper longingly gazing at a purchase she can’t afford to make. Envying the absolute delight in all of the faces inside of the coveted bubble.
I am an Introvert.
More often, I‘m caught between a fraught yearning of desperately desiring to experience life inside of the bubble and utter contentment of observing it from the outside. A constant struggle of feeling like I’ve missed out on the only opportunity to fully be alive and another chance to grab life by the wheels is just around the corner. An optimist and pessimist in the same body. On the outside, I appear quiet, reserved and reflective. That’s how most view me and the label shy has been thrust upon me more times that I can recall. The revelation here is that this couldn’t be further from the truth about the real me. The shy label is only armor, armor that protects my rich inner world of a constant stream of loud thoughts, an imagination that floats to unimaginable heights for days even weeks at a time and vivid color filled dreams of past and future life. And while my exterior expression may communicate I have nothing to speak about, my mind is playing like a tape recorder on fast forward all of the time. Much of my teenage life I spent in angst and while this is normal teenage woes, for me it was because I wanted to accept the shy label, I thought it was befitting. True, I didn’t talk much, striking up conversations with strangers and friends alike caused anxiety. Instead of conquering my teenage angst, my worries only advanced into deeper roots as I developed into an adult. I spent years attempting to outgrow the shy label, struggling to be more assertive, more open to life, more social, all the while fighting against the grain of who I was originally created to be.
Again, always just outside of the bubble.
A traumatic experience forced me into therapy a few years ago, extensive therapy, where I had no choice but to face my nightmares alone. And speaking of alone, I oft wondered why I so cherished, essentially thrive at times when I find myself there. I spent years convincing myself something was wrong with me, that I wasn’t normal, like everyone else. Therapy, good therapy, gently places a mirror in your hand and lovingly forces you to stare at your reflection. At your insecurities and fears and again lovingly pushes you to embrace all of it. And in the accepting, the false layers began to peel away until you are stripped down to your true core. In all my getting, I got an understanding of me, of my introverted nature. I’m learning about self-care, what it consists of and how it relates to me. I’m learning to unleash the creative inside of me, instead of hiding her, allowing her to breathe and live. I’m learning the endless stories, fantasies inside of my head can actually be turned into something magical once my fingers hit the keyboard. I’m learning music, an impromptu solo dance party, an uninterrupted walk in the park, a glance into the blue sky on a busy day are like white blood cells fighting foreign substances attempting to invade my soul. I’m learning to pull all the way back after a really people intensive, environmentally stimulating work day in order to recharge. I’m learning to say no when I don’t possess the desire to say yes and not to accept social invitations out of guilt. I’m learning I cannot give of myself if my tank is empty and refueling requires alone time. I’m learning not to fear the unexpected waves of creativity, which usually involve a tsumani of intense emotional vulnerability, but instead allow it to swallow me, get still and just create. I’m learning mistakes are not fatal but directional and purposeful, and they are needed in any growth process. I’m learning that I am me and me, fatally flawed but gracefully forgiven, is enough.
I am Enough.
I am an Introvert.
And I’m finally living my truth.