“But you’re not an introvert.”
That is a common response when I tell someone I am an INFJ on the Myers-Briggs personality index. (The "I," for those of you who don’t speak Myers-Briggs, stands for “introvert.’)
Well, yes, I am. An introvert, that is.
Here is how I confuse people (and myself at times). I am not shy. (Well sometimes). I am not reserved. I have been called intense more times than I care to remember, and my interactions are rarely casual or superficial.
So why do I, supported by Myers-Briggs, call myself an introvert?
If you do a Google search for the word “introvert,” you will find lists of characteristics, some of which I share, others of which I do not. (All introverts are not cut from the same cloth.) Here is my basic definition: An introvert retreats in order to recharge. By contrast, an extrovert recharges by engaging with others.
So, even though I thrive on engaging with those who are important to me and pop out of my hole regularly to do so--perhaps giving some the impression of extroversion, I then need to retreat into my hole in order to recharge. And my need to retreat can be sudden. It may even appear rude at times. I will be happily engaged, and suddenly it is as if a switch has been flipped. I have no more engagement in me.
Marjorie has left the building.
I did not always self-identify as an introvert. It took me a long time to understand that I like to spend time alone, never mind that I need to spend time alone. In my twenties, spending time alone was scary, even excruciating at times. It was not that I believed myself to be an extrovert; it was just that I did not know how be alone. I had no real sense of myself or what was important to me, so how could I enjoy my own company? Did spending time alone mean I was unlovable? If I didn’t make plans for the weekend, would anyone call? And what if the alone time lasted forever?
And then, slowly, I began to trust my alone time, to like it even. I remember one of the first occasions when I noticed that I was really enjoying being alone. It was during a weekend away with friends when I was in my early thirties. I stayed back, while the others went off to do something and was surprised to find myself thinking, I like this.
As the years went by, I liked being alone more and more, and, not surprisingly, when my kids came along, I found myself craving alone time, seeking out those few moments during the day when I could hear myself think.
Now, decades after the days when being alone was scary, I have reached a point where I recognize that I feel un-centered, exhausted, and out-of-sorts if I do not spend time alone. My task now is to figure out how to carve out such time in a life filled with beloved and interesting people and activities. (After nearly six years of retirement, I still have to remind myself that if I say yes to everything that sounds attractive, I will wind up with a full calendar and a grumpy mood.)
Mind you, I do not want to be alone all of the time. I acknowledge that I am able to enjoy my alone time precisely because it is bracketed by time with my husband, children, friends, and extended family. I have lived for long enough to be held in a network of loved ones. So, when I go into retreat mode, I have the luxury of knowing that my people are going about their business outside my zone of silence, and when I am recharged, I can reconnect.
I am so grateful to all of those who keep the world turning each time I step back and I am grateful to have lived long enough to be able to appreciate both the gifts of time alone and time with those who are walking through this life with me. And if I get the balance wrong at times, and need to suddenly disappear for a while, I am grateful for the understanding of those who love me.
