A True Introvert

So I did it. I moved to a big city. I crossed the country in my little car and only the possessions my boyfriend and I could fit into it. We found an apartment in a good neighborhood. He found a job, I found enough freelance work to cobble together an income for the time being. So that's that. Big city life begins now.

Except that it doesn't. Because even with all the big changes I've managed to make in the recent months (none of which I regret), I haven't changed. This shouldn't be a surprise, but somehow, to me it was. I really felt that moving to a city would lead to more excitement, more work, more friends, more life. Very naive, but yes, it's what I felt. Not so much what I thought, because I am a smart person and I rationally know that moving doesn't just make those things happen. But somewhere, deep down, it was what I felt.

My mother calls me a true introvert. Not just an introvert, a true introvert. She would hold me up as the classic example if someone asked her to define the word. A few summers ago, I worked at a summer camp for the entire summer, living in a house with 11 other people, the people I would work with for two and a half months. Before camp started, we all took personality tests as a way to talk about how we would deal with each other and any problems that might come up. There were 10 questions that, we found out at the end of the test, corresponded to introversion vs. extroversion. I got 9/10 for introversion. Curious, I checked to see on which answer I leaned toward extraversion. The question was something like, "If the phone rings, do you want to be the first person to pick it up or do you wait for someone else to answer it?" I chose to be the person to pick it up. Here was my thought process:

Well, ok, we can't be talking about my personal cell phone because obviously, no one else is going to pick it up. Either I answer it or no one does. But this is talking about a group phone, like the house phone. OK so when I lived at home, what did I do? Ugh, no one answered the phone at home. If I don't pick it up, no one's going to. And then it will just ring and I'll wonder if someone's dead and we don't know because no one is answering. So, I guess I'd answer the phone.

So, my need for control was masquerading as extroversion.

http://www.takenseriouslyamusing.com/
2013/04/15/introversion-and-me/

When my phone (or any other phone) rings, I don't want to answer it. I do, these days, because I'm a freelancer and there's no distinguishing my work phone and my personal phone. But I don't want to; I don't want to start a conversation without knowing what it's about. If it's a number I don't recognize, I wonder who it is and if there's any way it could be something bad or if it could be someone who's going to make me feel awkward. If it's a friend, I wonder why they're calling. Are they going to keep me on the phone for a long time? Are they gonna just feel like chatting when I want to be reading? If it's a number associated with work, I'll answer with my heart rate increasing, wondering if I've done something wrong. If it's my mom, my sisters, or my boyfriend I'll answer every time. They are the only ones whose calls I answer every time. The sound of the phone ringing gives me anxiety, and I'd rather wait to get a voicemail, find out what the call was about, and call back when I've had time to prepare. Or better yet, just speak to someone through texts.

Social situations make me uncomfortable. I don't like asking for help, because it usually involves having to a) speak to people and b) admit I don't know something. When I go to the library, I look up the book beforehand to make sure they have it and that it's not checked out, and I write down the call number so I can easily find it. So that I don't have to talk to anyone. I don't want to start conversations with random strangers. Small talk makes me uncomfortable and I'm not good at it. I never mastered the art of a quick answer that tells the truth while glossing over anything I don't want to talk about and leaving the asker satisfied. Most of the time, if I'm going to a party or other large group social scenario, I have to psych myself up for it. If it's with people I like, or if I can find a small group of people I'm comfortable with, I can have a great time at the party. I do enjoy being with people, after all. But at some point during the event, I'll hit a wall and it is time to go home. Too much social interaction. Must recharge. All systems shutting...down...now.

I know all this about myself. So why did I think that moving to a city would change it? I don't know.

I am an introvert, maybe even a true introvert. But I still like spending time with other people. I just have to remind myself that in order to see other people, I have to be the one to go out. I have to send out texts to see whose available. If I want to meet new people, I have to find out what's happening around town and go out to new events. It will never be easy for me. It will be mentally and emotionally exhausting and it will take time. But it will be worth it. And true introvert or not, I can do it.

Bedtime for Bunny

Once I won a contest for songwriting.

I'm not joking. I was in the 3rd or 4th grade, and my piano teacher offered music composition classes during the summers. To get us out of the way, my mom always signed us up for these.

I remember being in music class at school, sitting 2 to a keyboard, and the teacher asked us to come up with a note or a short tune that sounded like an animal to us. I reached out and quickly hit a black key followed by the white key directly to the right of it, a half-step up. I repeated this a couple of notes higher, then again a little higher. I said it was like a bunny rabbit hopping.

In my summer composition class, I must have remembered my bunny sounds, because they ended up being the basis for the song I worked on. I called it "Bedtime for Bunny" and said it was about a mama bunny trying to calm down her hopping baby at bedtime. (The mama was played with the same type of tune, but going down a half-step instead of up, and in a lower octave.)

My piano teacher had fancy computer technology (for the time) just for these composition classes. We could play something on her keyboard (actually, I believe it was a harpsichord) and the computer picked it up and wrote it out for us. We could fiddle with the notes, the timing, the tempo, and the computer would play it back to us. To me, this was a really cool toy. What it meant, though, was that I finished the class with a composition, written by me, that I'd never actually played all the way through with my own two hands.

My teacher got permission from our mother to enter out compositions in a contest. Before we knew it, my sister and I had both won awards (I'm guessing there weren't many entries in this competition). I thought it was cool that I had won something. Then my mother told me that the winners had to play at a recital.

That's when it hit me. I had to get up in front of a crowd and play my song. A song I had supposedly written. A song I'd never really played.

I know I probably had moments of anxiety earlier in my 8 years of life, but this is the first one that I remember so clearly. I can still feel it the panic and fear. My mother tried to work with me, sitting at the piano to practice my song. The music sat in front of me, with my name printed on it, and I felt like a fraud. You can't have written a song if you can't play it!

My memory of the concert is in flashes. I remember the drive, I remember what the location looked like, I remember the immense relief when it was over. But I don't remember how I played. I know that I did. I even sort of remember the view of the audience from the piano. But I don't know how I played. Did I pull it together and play the song well? Did I flop, destroying my own composition? I truly don't know.

But I know that I didn't cry or scream or run away. I know that I didn't fake sick and skip the whole concert (something Leslie girls have done on an occcasion or seven). I know that I got up in front of the crowd, sat down at the piano, and played something. I guess that's all that mattered.

A Constant Struggle

Thirty seconds. Twenty-eight.

I hate running. I hate this.

You can do it.

Fifteen seconds.

Ugggghhh!!! I'm so tired!! Even my inner voice is capable of whining like a 5-year-old when I'm tired enough.

Ten seconds.

I can hear Amber in my head. "You can do anything for ten seconds!"

Time! I push the down button the treadmill's--what is it? Dashboard? Control panel? I feel the belt slowing and I am walking again. Finally.


Why do I put myself through this?

I say it's all in the name of health, that I want to still be exercising when I'm 90, like my grandmother was. I don't have a body image problem, after all; I'm one of those smart girls who knows how absurd the beauty standards of our culture are. I know it's all but impossible for me to get six-pack abs. I know that, unless I manage to grow another 7 inches, I'll never look like a Victoria's Secret model. And I know that I am a perfectly healthy and average weight.

But there I am on the scale, just about every morning. There I am on Sunday afternoon, feeling grumpy and seeking comfort in food, then feeling guilty about it later.

It's not about intelligence, or being a smart girl, or being aware of the impossible standards. It's not about how many gender studies classes I've taken, how many magazine ads I've looked at and analyzed. It's not about understanding what is or is not a healthy weight for my height.

It's about what I've been told, over and over and over, since I was a little girl. And I've been told, in ways subtle and not, that my body, my appearance, my attractiveness as decided by men is what makes me worthwhile. And then I've been told that I'll never be enough, that I'll always need another product, another diet, a new exercise, in order to be perfect. And that's what I should want, and strive for. To be perfect. Perfectly attractive as defined by someone else.

I'm not saying that I want to stop exercising. I actually enjoy it, most of the time. I do want to be healthy and I like feeling strong. I want to be able to spend a day outdoors, moving and playing, and not be exhausted immediately. I do want to still be exercising when I'm 90. And if nothing else, I want to be able to run away from a murderer, or fight back against one, should I ever need to. I don't believe that exercising is inherently bad, or anti-woman, or anti-feminist, and it doesn't mean that I have an eating disorder.

What I do have is a constant fight. And I think many women these days do. I have to fight with myself and all the inner voices every day. I fight over how much exercise I need to maintain my healthy weight and how much exercise I need to look "hot". One voice tells me I've gained a pound since yesterday, or three since last week, and I need to watch out, while the other one tells me I'm fine and I'm healthy and fuck looking hot, those french fries last night were delicious!

I have to fight to remind myself that it's my life, that I can, that I should, look how I want and spend my time how I want. I have to fight to remember that, no matter what the magazines say, I'm not working out for a bikini body. I'm working out so that I can live a long and healthy life. I'm working out so that sitting at a desk doesn't ruin my body's ability to function. I'm working out so that I can live an active life (hopefully, more active than my current one). I'm working out so I can have time to myself when I can think and not have to talk.

It's a struggle, but ultimately, I'm fighting to define who I am in a world that wants to tell me who I should be. And even when it's hard, or I lose sight of it for a minute, I'm getting there.

Watching Through My Fingers

Maybe I should stop watching horror movies.

I used to love them. I still do, I guess, but when I was 13 or 14 or 15, we would see a preview for a horror movie and my dad would say "That's a Genie movie." Actually, he still says this, but he hasn't seen me watch one in a long time.

I have perfected the art of peering at the screen through my fingers (which also means that I'm turning into my mother). I'm not covering the screen (usually) but rather, I'm blocking out my peripheral vision so that I see nothing but the screen. I think this is the visual equivalent of hiding under the covers. If I can't see anything around me, I can't be scared by a movement out of the corner of my eye, or by Aaron trying to make a face and freak me out. I can feel as if I've put myself into a safe little hole. Plus, my fingers are right by my eyes, just in case I do need to cover them completely.

I get more scared watching these movies now than I did when I was 14. What's that all about? When I was younger, I loved the feeling of being scared. Now, as soon as the first scary moment starts to happen, I inevitably say, "Why are we watching this? Why do I do this to myself?"

I know part of my problem is a fear of the unknown. Last night, watching Sinister, I finally said, "I'm ready for the big stuff to happen." Once the little ghost children started appearing, I was somewhat better, more able to watch the movie. The reveal is never as scary as you think it will be. It's the creeping down hallways, the hearing little unknown noises, the shadows in which you can't tell if something is in the corner or not--that's what's horrifying to me.

Honestly, I might still be sort of afraid of the dark. It's not that I'm afraid every time I'm in the dark, or that I leave a light on when I sleep. But there have been times when I've tried to go to sleep and thought, what if? What if I opened my eyes and there were a man with a knife staring back at me? What if I felt pressure on the end of the bed, like someone were sitting there, but I looked and saw nothing? What if someone is creeping down the hallway right now? And no matter what, no matter how many times I make sure the front door was locked before bed, no matter how much I don't believe in ghosts (and I really don't), that little voice plants just a little doubt. I feel like one of those people who doesn't believe in God but decides to pray before they die, just in case. I don't believe in ghosts, I don't believe the dark is going to get me...but shouldn't I be prepared in case I'm wrong?


Just about any horror movie can scare me. It doesn't have to be good. I love psychological thrillers, movies with more suspense than shock, but the ones that get my heart rate up are the cheesy ones, the ones with a demon/ghost, who's been haunting since the medieval times, who appears with a red face. The ones where the demon's face appears in the final seconds before the credits. These are the ones that terrify me. The unexpected image that makes you jump, the person or ghost or event that you weren't expecting suddenly appearing right in front of you--these are the fears that keep me up at night.

Time (You Ain't No Friend of Mine)

I worry about running out of time.

I am an organized person. I have no problem scheduling my day. My alarm is already set for 6:00 a.m. tomorrow, my second alarm for 6:15. The plan is to work out, shower, eat breakfast. I hope I'll have time for writing before work but I'm not positive. After work, I plan to spend about 2 hours on freelance work. Then I want to read my fantasy novel, play Mario Galaxy 2 on the Wii, catch up on my magazines, watch an episode of The Following, eat dinner, blog, and spend time with Aaron. But I'll never accomplish all that tomorrow, even if I wake up exactly on time (I won't) and don't nap after work (I will).

One of the saddest things I ever read was "I'll never be able to read all the books I want to read." When I read this, I felt like I'd been slapped in the face. This had never even occurred to me! Even if I made it through my entire list of books I want to read, by the time I finished, sooo many more books would have been published. And I would want to read them! And that's not even mentioning the magazines, and the blogs, and the newspapers. It's impossible.

But recently, Aaron said something even more terrifying. He said, "My nightmare: waiting until too late in life to start something, like writing a book, and not being able to finish." Aaahhhh! Another thing to worry about!

I want to have time to live my life the way that I want. But what do I want? I want to live somewhere cool, working any job and not caring about a career, just enjoying my place and time in the world. But I want to have a full career doing something I love and that I'm good at. I want to raise children and love them, but I also want to live a long, childless life, full of travel and free from worries about school systems and the effect of technology on developing brains and rocks stuck inside little noses.

Maybe I'm so afraid of running out of time because I don't know what I want. I don't know if I want to live in one place, or have the opportunity to move around. I don't know if I want children. I don't know if I'd prefer to have a long-time career path or not. I don't know what my life should be, and I don't want to miss out on it while I'm trying to decide.

But I do know that I want enough time to read all the books.