A Little of This, A Little of That

Dearest Austere Aster,

Do we ever really solidify? Do our identities ever truly harden, like dripping wax on the side of a candle? Perhaps; until the next time someone strikes a match.

For me, the thing that has been coming and going throughout my life is my introversion. This might not be the perfect term for what I am about to describe, but I am choosing to mean this to be my need, desire, and willingness to interact with a multitude of humans. You asked about something I thought I let go of, only to have it show back up at my soul's doorstep. Well, this little devil has apparently been the entity that comes and goes as it pleases, and I suspect its weaving journey through my life is far from over.

The Initial Departure

My early childhood was split between two cities: the one where my parents attended theater school, and the one where I was born. I lived with my parents during the warm months, and with my grandmother in the winter because my feeble little lungs could not handle the smog and bitter cold. Or something. Toddlers are not usually privy to these decisions. Anyway, this arrangement basically meant that half the time, I was hanging out with my grandma, who did not actively encourage me socializing with peers, but did ensure that I have a very filled activity calendar. The other half was spent with my parents and their college-aged cohort at the theater institute, which I absolutely adored because this exposed me to all manner of hilarious adult shenanigans. Back then, I felt like a cool part of the group, an equal to all these bright and colorful individuals, joining in their adventures with childish naivete. In retrospect, I realize that I was more of a beloved little mascot of the group: always around; cute, cuddly, and comical; conveniently clueless.

What I lacked in interaction with peers, I made up with an intense inner world, an imagination that could power hours of independent play. I didn't need anyone but me, my family, my books, and whatever toys I could find. In fact, whenever my parents did try to get me to attend daycare, I cried and begged and held on to furniture to thwart their efforts of physically dragging me to chill with humans my age. Cuz, gross. And unnecessary.

But then, something odd happened when I started first grade. Not sure how, but I became popular. Like, really popular. Perhaps my previous life made me into a more interesting 7 year old or something. I suddenly had more attention than I knew what to do with - from girls and, oh yes, boys. (The latter part really laid a foundation that would, sadly, define a lot of my decisions later on in life. But more on that in a bit.) Anyway, I was a loner no more. I relished in the attention, I craved more and more. I climbed the social ladder so hard that even skipping a grade and moving schools did not stop me from becoming class president and earning the trophy for Most Charming, (Russian schools are weird). I thought I finally came out of my shell and expected to be a social butterfly for the rest of my life. No more introvert.

Bitch, You Thought

And then immigration happened. I don't need to tell you the gory details. I became a silent, foreign weirdo, terrified of all interactions with most humans. You caught some of this sad Orchid back in the early days of Sunday school. Hello, introversion, my old friend. Except this time around, I hated this trait in myself. I was okay with it when it was just a natural part of me, before I got a taste for social attention. Now it felt like I was being punished, like this was a limitation that was placed on me by an outside force, and I hated it.

I clung to memories of being at the center of a social group, and I desperately wanted to recreate the feelings in whatever way I could. So, the more English I learned, the more comfort I gained in American society, the closer I got to reviving my old social, outgoing self. It took a while, but sometime around sophomore year of high school, it finally happened. I found my voice once again, and I remembered what it's like to have all eyes on me. The appearance of the first boyfriend certainly helped. With him, came his social circle, and those awfully obnoxious house parties, and Wendy's parking lot meet ups, and backyard bonfires, and sneaking out the window at 3AM to drive to the city with a rambunctious group of lord-knows-who.

My introversion was dead and gone, I thought. College only gave me more freedom. More freedom to 'be myself' - or so I thought: to do wilder things that garner attention, to seek social validation from more and more people (read: the aforementioned boys). I lost myself in a whirlwind of excitement, snatching as many extrovert badges as I could grab.

The Carousel Slows Down

Do you remember a particular instance on the floor of someone's bathroom? There were many that you and I shared, I'm sure, but in this one, I was crying uncontrollably, and I didn't know why. I started doing that at some point, and we didn't really know how to handle it. I would just start crying. Always at the peak of intoxication, at the peak of so-called social fun. I think that that is when my introversion started knocking on the door, begging to be let back in. Quietly and timidly at first, but eventually escalating into a pounding that I could no longer ignore.

I was taken aback. It was like the return of an estranged relative whose face I managed to forget already. I didn't know what to say to this version of myself. I was actually ashamed of her. I accused her of trying to destroy what I worked so hard to build up: my extroverted identity, my social butterfly status. And yet, slowly but surely, she coaxed me into hearing her. With her help, I learned to listen to myself and the world around me again. I remembered what it's like to find peace in solitude and beauty in quiet.

So, Where Am I Now?

I think that at this point, I have happily welcomed back my introversion, but I have also understood that a part of me will always crave the thrill of socializing; this isn't an original notion - finding that balance is a natural part of growing up for most people, I think. However, what I love most about my relationship with human presence is that I have gotten to experience myself at both extremes of the spectrum, so I am able to pick and choose just how social I want to be on a given day. This means that there are times when I absolutely need to see your lovely face, and yours alone. Other times, I actually crave a ridiculously loud gathering that I can spin through, collecting all the delicious bits of people's energies and stories. And sometimes, I need everyone but my cat's butthole to get the fuck out of my face, and leave me on the couch with my wine and paint-by-numbers. The thing that I've only recently learned to do is not judge myself based on any of these cravings: to not feel like I am missing out on life if I am not with people, or like I am pathetically dependent on someone if I desperately need their touch.

I only wish that I would have gotten some of this clarity earlier on... would probably have saved some dough on therapy. Oh well, perhaps in another life, where - I hope - I still have you by my side, my lovely Aster.

Except we will likely be reincarnated as some form of fungi.

Or perhaps llamas. We could wear funky hats and prance around all fluffily.

-Obnoxious Orchid

P.S. Let's lighten up a little, shall we? How would you describe your sense of humor? How did it form and evolve? What makes you cackle? (You have the BEST wall-shaking laugh <3.)

[Currently listening to the Mireille Mathieu Pandora station; makes me want a luxurious silk scarf and a troubled man to meet on a stormy train ride through the countryside...]