Wednesday, December 14, 2011

A little rant on being introverted...

This isn't really a blog post, just me allowing Carl, the author of the article, 10 Myths About Introverts,  to shout from the rooftops for me what I have always felt like screaming myself.  It's a big sigh of relief anytime I can relate to another human being because, so often, I simply can't.

It frustrates me on a daily basis that my own mother will never understand all of this, that when I told her that I realized that I am a Highly Sensitive Person and that there is a real name for my personality type, she answered wryly, "Is there something you can take for it?"  I don't know if the rift between us that has been there most of my life and has grown tremendously in the last few years, can ever be repaired, for this and for so many other reasons, even though I have begun trying.  My third attempt ended in an emotional pummeling, the same as the first two. Big surprise.  My mother invented the guilt trip.

It's fine that most won't care to "get" who I am, but the fact that she and my siblings only want to "fix" me, insisting that I, and now my children, should BE different than we are, just breaks my heart, especially at this time of year.  I'm tired.  Just one big mood swing, right now.

The fact that I have other relatives who share this personality type, including my own dear father who will also never catch a break from these same people, is consolation.  And it still amazes me that the reason I have a successful marriage is because my soul mate happens to be an introvert, as well.  He says "he knew" the first time he met me that I was the girl.  I knew soon after, once I was able to break through my shyness and actually converse with him and begin a relationship.  We were married three months later.  Now he is my sanity and my oasis in a world of the 75% of those who aren't like us, who think we are strange because we don't throw block parties every other weekend and our kids are more interested in artistic and intellectual pursuits than little league. 

Okay.  Big breath.  I'm done. I can get off my soapbox, for now, and back to my housework and holiday baking without scrunching my eyebrows together while pulling clothes out of the dryer, fretting over this topic.  On this day, I must get my duck house mucked and begin a gingerbread castle with my boys.  One tremendously fun chore, another so detested, it's a good thing I love those silly ducks so much or they would end up the centerpiece of our Christmas dinner table.

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