I’m sitting here writing this because I chose not to go out tonight.
It’s the first time I’ve truly had to myself for what feels like a really, really long time (thinking about it, I suppose that means about a week and a half). When my husband told me he had *surprise* duty tonight, I texted a couple of friends with a series of sad-face emojis and a brief grumble — but really, I’m thankful. I’m thankful for the quiet. I could have gone to a friend’s house, made dinner plans, or invited people over, but the allure of uninterrupted solitude won out. A glass of wine on the sofa and the soothing tap-tap-tap of my keyboard: Bliss.
A few years ago, I was an introvert in every sense of the word. I would go to work, come home, chat with my parents or roommates for a couple of minutes, and retreat upstairs into my little box room, away from everything. Admittedly, that was not blissful. I was struggling to cope and the only way I knew how was to shut myself away from everyone, friend or foe. When people talk about introverts and extroverts, it always sounds so black and white, and in those days I was an absolute extreme. I relished being alone; even something as simple as a coffee date with a friend would send me into a tailspin of anxiety. I allowed myself to be dominated by my natural introversion.