The Upper-Hand of Solitude
It’s time to revel in your strength
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‘I don’t know what’s worse: to not know what you are and be happy, or to become what you’ve always wanted to be, and feel alone.’ — Daniel Keyes
Facing the fear of loneliness:
I’ve always been somewhat of a loner. Perhaps not in the eyes of the world, but in how I feel. I’m almost half-smiling because merely a decade ago, I would have disguised it at all costs. But here I am, about to bare it all. To you.
I’ve spent years in denial. Actively seeking my place in social circles to prove to myself I make the cut.
If the world thinks it, who am I to question their judgement?
So I followed suit to what I’d always known — held tightly to the familiar. Feared loneliness like the plague.
At times, I was even convinced I’d nailed it. Though often I’d come home to spend time with yours truly, and suddenly feel overwhelmed by my own existence.
I’d hoped that my happiness would catch up, at some point. That I’d finally see this ‘outgoing’ girl that people told me so often I was.
I felt deflated when people would comment on my assertiveness, or even my ‘charm’ — Isn’t this what I want people to see?
I’d ponder it over and over and wonder why it wasn’t filling me with joy – This bittersweet validation that drifted me further from the person I was meant to be.
I’ve spent years wishing her away. Now I want to pull her back in before she disappears.
Wake up call:
I knew something had to change: my perspective, my mindset, whatever it took. I observed people- as I often did, paying attention to those who exuded the quiet strength that comes with self-contentment.
The kind I longed for.
I wondered if they were introverts too, or whether they had become masters of the art of faking it. It can be done, as I know all too well.
I thought of people I see everyday – probably thinking I’m the ‘happy go lucky’ type. The truth is, introverts are experts at keeping it on the down low. ‘Fitting in’ through their careful observations of how people interact. Consuming it, reeling off small talk like a script.
The ‘victory’ of external validation can ditract from the real you: you are ‘alone’ in a crowded room, maybe even immersed in conversation, though internally, you’re static in a state of thwarted belonging.
Introversion becomes you:
We watch, we analyse, we consume, but doing it ourselves never feels lucid in nature. It’s exhaustive. We’re internal creatures, often ‘secret introverts’ who have the complex task of fitting-in while our minds wander to a different place. We can suffocate in a room full of noise, yearning for something of substance that lulls us into safety.
There’s peace in the stillness of solitude, a quiet satisfaction that I felt I was missing out on because my solitude wasn’t a choice.
It was a feeling of inadequacy. This voice inside my head telling me loneliness would always be thrust upon me, like fate.
That’s the thing about solitude, you have to sit with it: let it overwhelm you; be in awe of the quiet stillness of your own company.
At first, it will feel painfully uncomfortable. You will want to turn on the TV for some background noise: to adhere to the illusion of company – this familiarly that keeps you sane in the short term, but drives your subconscious insanity.
At times, I find the silence strangely deafening. As the world fades out, the thoughts in my head get louder: the painful harder to ignore. Real emotions are permissed of their suppression from the world’s mindless chatter.
It’s okay to embrace it:
When we think of solitude we think of a divide. If connection equates to happiness then surely we must fear being alone?
It’s often misunderstood that without solitude, individuality ceases to exist. We’d all be walking around with the same head on: the same thoughts, desires, and absolutely nothing would change.
The safety of another’s presence becomes a realm so secure that you forget who you really are.
But we all began this journey alone.
We all endured solitude in our mothers womb. Innocent yet tactile, ready to be moulded into our very own brand of being: Taking your first breath, for you, and only for you. A transcendent way of living before the world gets its claws in. But you’re grown up now – your existence less simple. You’re no longer content in stillness. It’s drilled into you that to be social is to thrive. So you do it, and repeat. But why aren’t you thriving.
The stillness of your own company feels suffocating so you call up someone, anyone who will listen. The phone rings, you talk, and the panic resides for a while. But you ache to go back: to curl up in a warm place and surrender to the idea that you’d survive without them – without any of it. Because deep down we know that all of this is a constructed reality.
We were born the same way we assume our fate.
We needn’t always be alone. —the right people bring joy beyond belief. But we all need a vacation from time to time.
We all need to go back there.
What you really need, is you:
The company of others never fills the void, not truly. It’s more of a sugar high you get from a Belgian double-chocolate cookie, but lacks the nutrients you need to enjoy life. You’re ‘fuelled’ but not sustained.
It leaves you empty and craving more.
Relying on the company of others merely makes my own feel inadequate. I wish I’d realised this sooner. I found embracing self-solitude did more for the soul. It’s fruitful and full of antioxidants, you just have to bare it’s initial sour taste. So, I did.
I made it my mantra to be ‘lonely’, to revel in my own perceived arkwardness and just be. I focused on doing the things I love instead of talking about them with people who were likely too invested in their own lives to fully care – even if they meant well.
We’re all walking around with a million and one things circulating our minds so really, it’s to be expected.
It didn’t reek of impermanence or have me question it’s authenticity. I’ve spent days, months, years of my existence exhausting my psyche for the sake of others, yearning to please them at my mind’s expense. It’s an investment of your happiness that yields little in return. It’s time you’ll never get back.
I’ve been living in pretence of what I thought I needed. Truthfully, people make me feel fleetingly assured or anxiously alone, with little room for middle-ground.
Maybe I’d hoped that one day I’d be immune from my natural urge to submit to introversion – To ‘fit in’ without the effort. To not feel exhausted by social niceties, but I do. It’s the way I’m wired. My brain gets overwhelmed by overload, including, at times, well-meaning interactions with other people.
My people. The ones who give me vigour and strength when I need it most. I fear I fall short in comparison – that I leave them short-changed. That one day they will discover the inadequacy that I’ve been trying to disguise for so long, even from myself.
I have to remind myself that part of introversion is being hyper-aware in a world that runs at manic pace. It’s precisely why we yearn to hibernate:
To recoil into the comforts of our ‘safe place’ to recharge for a while, but to end up feeling deflated and frankly, a little ashamed that you couldn’t just go with the flow like your more extroverted counterparts.
Embracing an introverted mind:
I’d ask myself: Am I painfully shy or socially inept?
The truth: It doesn’t matter.
I made the mistake of thinking that any of these things would make me less of a person. I overvalued their importance – distracted myself from the desire to just live. I was putting impossible pressure on myself to have to be something to everyone (or at least, a fair few) to validate my life.
That somehow if no-one knew me, or weren’t knowingly intertwined with my life’s fluctuations, that my life would mean nothing. I’d just be this mortal piece of flesh wandering the streets in search of her next ‘meal’. I succumbed to fear of being the ‘odd one out’; fear of being shunned or rejected by society at large if I uncovered my nakedness.
A ‘dirty little secret’ that makes me feel like no one really knows the real me: shy, yet passionate. Fragile, yet strong. People see what they want to see, and I’ve let them. I’ve encouraged it.
‘Yet today we make room for a remarkably narrow range of personality styles, We’re told that to be great is to be bold, to be happy is to be sociable. We see ourselves as a nation of extroverts — which means we’ve lost sight of who we really are.’ – (Quiet, Susan Cain: 2012)
I think one of my biggest fears is that my struggles with social interaction will alter how people view my intelligence, or that they may interpret my shyness as standoffish or rude. That takes me down another rabbit hole. People love social butterflies, the effortlessly engaging people who have all the right words.
I can do this when I write. I can bare all with ease. I even totally get (although I’m for sure not an advocate of), the trolls on the internet who elude power behind a keyboard.
I just feel like I can let the raw be known, at my own pace, because I’m not seeing the sullen look of boredom wash over someone’s face if I’m not interesting enough.
The perils of social interaction make me feel pain – I’ve spent my whole life feeling misunderstood.
But from now on, I’ll be the judge of that.
