Last week, I went for a walk in the woods. I needed some time alone. I needed fresh air, and I needed to think. Working on my assignments drained me of all motivation and energy. I needed a moment away from my day-to-day.
Twigs snapped beneath my boots. Overhead branches provided shade, and the smell of sap hovered off of the tree bark. Streams gabbled nearby. Birdsong and the hum of winged insects drowned out the sound of cars on the nearest road. I had no destination in mind, no predetermined direction or goal. My wanderings were purely unplanned. Eventually, I found myself in a vast clearing, a slight grassy incline devoid of human presence. There was a gnarled tree stump at the head of the clearing. I sat on it and collected my breath.
Sitting alone in the clearing felt like some profound event, an immense stage for some personal revelation. A fly landed on a tuft of hay. The branches swayed around me. Nature is a self-sustaining system. Its silent omnipresence swallowed me whole. I allowed it to do so. All of my problems and worries became small, distant, trivial. Being alone in the clearing eventually brought me to an understanding that I doubt I’ll ever forget.
I am an introvert.
Part of me always understood this fact. Over the past few months, I have attempted to fit in by forcing myself to talk more and be outgoing. The results are pathetic. I dislike myself when I pretend to be that person, and others see me as artificial. Of course they do. As they should; that isn’t who I am. Society expects us all to be dominant and outgoing. Those who don’t follow this criteria are bullied and pressured into doing so.
I am 19 years old. Like everyone else at my age, I am in the depths of a profound identity crisis. I thought I wanted to become more outgoing and dominant – but I really, really don’t. That’s what society wants me to become. Impostor syndrome plagues me every single day. Now, I understand why. It is because I am purposely dumbing myself down in order to fit in. Ironically, this makes things worse. I am a pathetic person when I attempt to fit in. I really am. I am a braindead ignoramus. I am an absolute fool. I see myself as an idiot anyway. But when I try to be an extrovert, I’m convinced that I’m the worst person on the planet.
Writers are solitary people by default. It is an act that demands thought, quietude, personal reflection. It is a perfect occupation for an introvert. It’s who I really am. An introverted writer. I don’t talk much anymore. Everything I observe in the world, I store away to use in my writing. Introversion defines me. No matter how much I try to escape or bury it, I can’t. It is who I am. It is who I will always be.
Introversion is not a weakness. It really isn’t. One doesn’t need to overcome it. If you’re an introvert, you absolutely must embrace that fact. Don’t pretend to be an extrovert. Even if you’re rewarded for being outgoing and dominant, there will always be a part of you begging you to be yourself. This is the lesson I’ve learned from my many embarrassments.
Fuck what society wants me to be. If I am not myself, then I am nobody.
I am a quiet observer. I am a writer. I am an introvert.
Iestyn Tudor 