The Introverted Self

For a period, I found myself pondering whether something had been overlooked. The question, “Could I be introverted?” became a frequent Google search, followed by attempts at filling out online quizzes that often concluded with a hesitant “probably yes.” Seeking guidance, I asked friends, “How often should I be amongst friends?” Their responses varied but never gave me a satisfied feeling. It always seemed to often.

Ultimately, the most reasonable deduction is that I am an introvert. I’m not the first to turn “enjoys solitude” into a defining personality trait. However, deep down, it runs deeper than that. I attribute it to my upbringing with no siblings—no constant noise, parents who lived in silence next to each other for long periods, and no one sharing my space or laying claim to my possessions. I suspect that’s just the way I am.

But my “being alone”  is more than just my affinity for solitude; it’s an almost sacred reverence I hold for my time and space, occasionally bordering on what some might perceive as selfishness. “I need my space” is a sentence I know very well, as does my husband.

With age, I’ve made an effort to be more conscious of this tendency, especially now that I have a son. However, it still doesn’t come effortlessly except for his constant presence. My son is the only person in the world whom I effortlessly tolerate at all times.