Cyril Wheaton Early this summer, I attended Iowa Young Writers Studio to hone my creative writing abilities. During my time there, I had the privilege to hang out with a rowdy but friendly group of boys, all unique and talented writers. They held riveting ping pong matches (too many in fact) and one of them even gave me some coaching so I could hold my own (sort of). I ate Asian street food with them, snickered at ghastly poetry, and spent a lot of time in the common room laughing over random nonsense. It was without doubt one of the best social experiences I’ve had in a long time. But something seemed off. It’s a feeling I can never quite shake. A feeling I’ve had for every group of people I’ve ever hung out with, every crowd of ten and every cluster of three: I never can fully integrate into a group. Even when there’s no competitive aspect involved, something feels out of place: me.
So what’s the problem? Have my years as a homeschooler turned me into a socially incompetent recluse? I do spend most of my time in youth group shooting billiards… alone. But that’s not really an overall explanation. Actually, I love being around people. But when I’m speaking to someone, somehow it takes a conscious effort (sometimes struggle) to speak, it feels forced and alien. I’m sure there’s really nothing wrong. Still, when I speak long enough, I start imagining that I’m in third person and I become overly aware of every sentence. It’s as if I’m a book page of dialogue and I’m reading off what’s written. It occurs often enough that I get the sense I just don’t know anything about talking. The problem isn’t quite an inferiority complex. I know I earned my place at IYWS, and have a right to be anywhere I attend. But my feelings don’t really care about the fact.
Even as I sit on a call this very minute meeting with IYWS writers planning a literary journal, nothing I say seems to have any real importance. If I’m not dreaming up blocks that don’t exist, I’m questioning my every word. People listen but somehow it doesn’t matter either way. It’s as if I don’t actually even need to talk. I’m in attendance, but not quite there. Do I really need to be here? I’ll get skeptical, second guessing people’s behavior. Are they really friendly or are they just taking pity on the odd one out? How come I didn’t get trash-talked back at camp as much as the other guys in the lounge? Do I just not react enough or are they worried that I’ll take it the wrong way? Was the context for it not ripe or am I just not a loose type like the other guys? Perhaps–
Do I just prefer being alone? Not really. Every lunch hour at the conservatory, I’m sitting on the same chair, eating the same bagel sandwich, and observing the same friend group 15 ft away (like a weirdo). It’s the same thing everytime. First the radio silence, then ruminating on how exhausting orchestra’s going to be in half an hour and then the bitterness sets in. I can convince myself for about two minutes that I operate better alone but the chalk talk soon gets washed off the slate by the flood of the usual annoyances. One member of the friend group that stands out above the rest, a boy who’s flopped cross-legged on the carpet holding the attention of his peers (and beyond) How does he go about speaking naturally and carelessly without second guessing his words? How does he go about powering one conversation after another like clockwork? Why is it so difficult to act alive? I hate sitting alone but at the same time it’s what I do because that’s all I’m really good at. It’s why I tend to fall silent in any social group because it’s the only way I truly integrate, mentally sitting a few rows away. Four years I’ve been with the youth group, yet I’ve only sunk about a quarter of my billiard table. My sisters say I’m an extrovert because I love being with people. But that only feels half true. I like hanging around people, but I didn’t say anything about talking.
Introverts are defined as people who feel more comfortable focusing on their inner thoughts and ideas, rather than what’s happening externally. I may draw strength from solitude, but I can’t stand the solitude either. According to legend (or my third oldest sister), it’ll get better once I go to college. We’ll see.
