Since moving to Beaufort to help my father manage his dementia, pretty much all of my friendships are maintained exclusively via texts, emails, and phone calls. This introvert is okay with that. I see my parents regularly. I have Alicia and Kingsly here. We’ve become the perfect amount of friendly with our new neighbors. But—despite being a natural-born introvert—sometimes I worry that my lack of in-person friend time is not entirely healthy.
When I lived on the Outer Banks of North Carolina, I went out to lunch with my extroverted best friend every week. Sometimes he and I would go to the beach and sit and talk in folding chairs, watching waves. Occasionally, we’d swim in the ocean together. Once in a blue moon we’d go to the movies. Sometimes he would invite me to do things with large groups of people and I’d almost always decline. He was okay with this. That made me very okay with him. I probably stayed on the Outer Banks a few extra years simply because he and I were so close. Even though I still text him almost daily and we talk on the phone a few hours every week, his physical absence has created a noticeable hole in my life.
I had another deeply introverted friend in OBX with whom I would take epic walks through Nags Head Woods, but only two or three times a year. We’d talk intensely for hours and bear hug at the end. Maybe once every winter he’d come to my house for an intense chat. We’d stare at the flaming logs in the fireplace and philosophize about all sorts of things. Every few years or so, we’d go on a big hike in Virginia or western NC. Whenever he and I would say goodbye, I knew I wouldn’t see him again for months, despite the fact that he lived only a twenty-minute drive away. But we’d always pick up right where we left off. Such is the way sometimes with deeply introverted friends.
My introverted OBX friend and I were supposed to meet in Brevard for hiking back in July of this year, but he had to cancel at the last minute, which made me sadder than I would have guessed. It also brought into stark focus the fact that—apart from a two-hour lunch I had with a buddy and his family who stopped by Beaufort on their way to Florida last winter—I hadn’t spent any in-person time with a legit friend in nine months.
Since leaving OBX, I have made a few new friends via the internet. People who live far away and only interact with me via computer or smartphone. Writers with whom I have begun discussing publishing, Hollywood, midlife, sobriety, Jungian analysis, and what being a good man means today. I’ve enjoyed this. A lot.
Recently, one of these men—who seems to have the hallmarks of an extrovert—texted that in a few days he would be within an eighty-minute drive of me. He asked if I would like to meet.
Surprising this routine-loving introvert with a last minute invitation is usually a surefire recipe for an automatic hard no, but I really like this person and have come to enjoy speaking with him regularly, often for two plus hours at a time.
For some reason, I assumed he was traveling solo on business and immediately implied that I would like to meet. I was imagining a quiet one-on-one experience that would be a face-to-face version of our phone calls. I was excited by this option. So I asked what he was doing in the Lowcountry.
He texted back that he was going to be on vacation with his wife’s entire family and kindly invited Alicia and me to join them for dinner. They had rented a gorgeous place right on the beach with a pool. He sent pictures of the impressive venue. From what he’s told me about his in-laws, they seem like truly wonderful people. But the sudden mental switch from a possible one-on-one chat to meeting an entire family for the first time gave me an introvert panic attack.
I started thinking about the fact that my aunt and uncle were going to be in town that same week and my sister was coming the following weekend and Alicia and I had committed to meeting my parents’ friends for an afternoon. It was already an over-scheduled week full of extroverting. And with more than a half century of lived experience under my belt, I know that doing too much extroverting without recovery alone time is a recipe for resentment at best and mental health problems at worst.
A quick internet search proves that people largely disagree on what makes someone an introvert or an extrovert—or something in between—and, therefore, what percentage of the world is introverted is also highly contested. But regardless of how many introverts there are, most Americans live in a decidedly extroverted culture. Extroversion is the default mode. It is definitely the encouraged and rewarded mode. And it’s often assumed that what an extrovert would want is what everyone would want.
I don’t necessarily think anything nefarious is going on here. I’m definitely not saying that extroverts are doing anything wrong. Mostly, I think we introverts are terrible advocates for ourselves. Advocating for oneself requires extroverting, especially when negotiating with extroverts, who often have no idea what is going on in an introvert’s head, because introverts are far less likely to share all that in extroverted situations.
One of the best perks of being an introverted writer is that I can spend a lot of time alone and still have a career. The hardest part about being an introverted writer for me—by far—is going out into the world and doing whatever is required to sell the work. I can sell the work. I can even sell the work in person and have successfully done this many times over the past twenty-some years—and on four different continents. I can be a fake extrovert when I need to be. But there is always a huge cost, which I used to punt down the road with heavy alcohol intake. Here on the right side of alcoholism—six plus years sober—it is infinitely easier for me to interact with a small group of people I know well and engage in intimate meaningful dialogue than to attend a party of many people whom I don’t know at all and surf through polite surface-level conversations.
The big problem is that part of me is ashamed of being an introvert. And I have an excruciatingly hard time letting people know my needs and preferences.
Back when I was an introverted kid, my grandfather would throw a Christmas Eve party and invite all of his church friends. Pop Pop always wanted me to be the door greeter. I remember him instructing me to shake every man’s hand firmly while looking him in the eyes, kiss every woman on the cheek while complimenting her appearance, make a funny comment to get the guests laughing, and then take their coats and handbags upstairs, putting them on the bed.
“If you do it correctly, you might even make tips!” Pop Pop would say. “Personality wins the day!”
In many ways, this felt akin to my grandfather saying, Ignore every intensely unpleasant warning signal that your nervous system is sending and invert your entire personality, because people might give you money!
I loved my Pop Pop. So on Christmas Eve, I did my best to be his party’s greeter. I remember being so nervous, I’d sweat through my dress shirt armpits before the first guest even arrived. But for my grandfather, I smiled and kissed and tried to think up jokes. I ran up and down the stairs, tossing coats and pocketbooks onto my grandparents’ bed. And then I’d retrieve them when people left. This went on all night long, but there was always a lull in the middle of it. I’d go outside and savor being alone in the freezing cold air of South Jersey’s late December. It would feel like finally being allowed to take a breath after having my head held under water for hours.
When Pop Pop would stick his head out and tell me to get back to fetching coats, I’d want to cry, but instead I smiled and told jokes, right on cue. No one ever gave me a tip, but my grandfather always praised me afterward. He wanted me to be a good extrovert, and so I learned how to become one, no matter how much suppressing my true nature cost me. I told myself it would get easier with practice, but it never ever did, until I discovered alcohol.
One-on-one in-person intimate conversations with people I know and trust have always been rewarding. I can do those regularly. In fact, I crave such interactions. So I really wanted to meet with my newish extroverted friend, which created an internal conflict. That week, I just didn’t have the bandwidth to do a big meet and greet, but I really wanted to spend quiet intimate in-person time with my new friend. Yet, I didn’t want to take him away from his family. Nor did I want his family to think I didn’t want to meet them. It was a big introverted conundrum. I actually lost sleep over it.
I very much want to be the kind of person who gets energy from being around large groups of people. Alicia and I often say we would rule the world if we had that super power. But I am the type of person who thrives when he spends lots of time alone and some time with people I know well and trust.
The problem was that I didn’t initially say that to my friend.
Why?
He’s a very empathetic person. I wasn’t afraid of disappointing or even upsetting him. I think it’s more that I’m ashamed of not being what the dominant culture rewards.
The whole episode really threw me for a loop, so I brought it up in analysis.
My extroverted analyst pointed out that there is a big difference between being an introvert and being neurotic.
Being an introvert means that spending time with groups of people will always be draining, no matter how nice they may be. It requires preparing for such occasions and being realistic about one’s limits.
Being neurotic means making yourself anxious and sick about who you are. It can also mean trying to present yourself as something you are not and then blaming other people for the resulting internal discomfort. And psychologically terrorizing yourself.
My analyst advised being honest and offering a counter proposal, one that would not tax me beyond my limits. He said the problem was that I was terrified of being known. That if I would only let people know who I am—what my needs are—I would feel a freeing sense of being. I would be telling myself that my needs and feelings and preferences matter. That I would no longer pervert my true nature in the hopes of becoming what I think others might want me to be.
So I told my friend that I would not be able to meet his entire family that particular week, but asked if he would like to drive to Beaufort for a one-on-one lunch and a walk around the city with me. I told him that I understood if this were not possible, as he was vacationing with family. But I thought I’d throw it out there. I felt very comfortable offering this alternative option, because I knew I would enjoy it. It was exactly what I have been missing since I left my best friend in OBX. Just as soon as I sent the text, I felt relieved of the great burden of perpetually hiding my true identity.
One of the things I miss most about drinking alcohol is the ability to be a fake extrovert for longer amounts of time. With a few drinks in me and a reinforcement cup in my hand, I could extrovert all night long. But the problem was this: I was literally poisoning who I was, killing it in service of presenting a fake version of Matthew Quick. There were people who definitely preferred the fake version. I was often rewarded for my performances.
But I’m starting to think that obtaining spiritual, emotional, and mental health requires having the courage to be one’s true self, even if that means being disliked.
My analyst says that as a feeling type I always instantly know what I like and what I don’t like. As an intuitive type, I also usually sense what others like and don’t like. Mirroring back to people what they want me to be is a subtle manipulation tactic that robs them of the ability to ever really know who I am. It’s living as a chameleon.
Why do people live as chameleons? Usually because someone long ago punished them for being who they really are. The work is learning to trust that not everyone wants to beat and shame the inherent characteristics out of others. Believing that there are others who will benefit from interacting with our true natures, even when—and maybe specifically because—we are so unlike them.
My extroverted friend texted back that he understood and would see how things were going during the week, leaving open the possibility of a quiet face-to-face meeting. On the night before the date I offered, he texted saying he couldn’t make it, but would like to set up another phone call, to which I happily agreed.
Habit energy dictated that I should beat the shit out of myself for failing to become whatever another human being hoped I would be. But my analyst has taught me to give both my new friend and myself more credit than that.
My new friend told me who he is. He’s the extroverted guy who wanted me to meet his extended family, before he and I even met in person.
I don’t hold that against him.
And I told him who I am. I’m the introverted guy who is always going to prefer one-on-one meetings.
I don’t think he holds that against me.
If either of us were upset about the other’s preference, we wouldn’t be friends. We’d be people who wanted to control and change each other.
There have been many times when I’ve felt erased by groups of extroverts who have loudly taken over spaces that I had been previously enjoying in more quiet, introverted ways. I’ve often allowed myself to feel resentful about how social media and cocktail parties and literary festivals and speaking gigs seem to favor extroverted writers—or at least seem to be much less taxing for my extroverted colleagues. And, I’ve many times wished that I was born in a more introverted country, perhaps Japan.
But I’m also starting to suspect that the success I’ve had in the past was actually fueled by my introversion. That being on the fringe of an extroverted culture has provided me with valuable insights and a different point of view.
It has made me weird.
But weird is often where art happens.
I’m very slowly learning to accept that fact and allow my more extroverted colleagues and friends to clearly see who I am. Not just on the page, but in real life too. And—with the help of my analyst—I’m actually starting to believe that the terror is optional, primarily because here at fifty-one years of age, it is almost entirely self-inflicted.
The antidote is allowing others to see who I am and learning to be okay with the consequences of that.
PS - Did you read the October 23rd post? Holy Risks (And A Second Chance)