Are You Talking To Me?

An Introvert Explains Himself

People don't ask me much of anything these days beyond How's it going? And, have you seen the 'Barbie' movie yet? Exclusion from the constant weave of social cohesion is a by-product of being shy. And by shy, I mean an urgent need to isolate.

Isolation is the realm of the addict. Initially sometimes. Eventually always. Think of the lone drinker at home, curtains closed, sitting in their favorite chair, ruminating until the lights go out. Or, in my case, self-soothing in a stew of meth, Xanax and the date rape drug, amongst any other anything.

But here's the problem: Mother Nature made a sunflower, not a shrinking violet, when she built me. I'm a Leo, for goodness’ sake. I didn't want to be a fireman when I grew up. I wanted to be a movie star and was loud about it from the day I was born. 

Shrinking was forced upon me, and it’s been a challenge because I’ve always been larger-than-life.

Exhibit A:

I fell out of a window playing cops and robbers when I was seven and fractured my skull. I was the bad guy and made the mistake of hiding on a windowsill and leaning against the glass. 

I fell out.

I have a scar shaped like a ram's horn curling from my left temple to the back of my skull. They shaved my head back then. Now I’m bald. Kids and hook-ups have an urgent need to know. Were you pushed? Does it hurt? Can I touch it? Machine operators at the airport and hospital have had questions, too. Yes, ma'am, there is indeed metal in my head.

And that's not all.

I'm English. When I was ten, I sounded like the Queen. But my mother moved us to Dallas. Texans had questions! Then, just when I began to pronounce a grizzly like the aspirin (Bayer, not Excedrin), she moved us back to London. Brits had questions, too. Boy Brits, in a boy’s school. Not much fun!

And then, I grew up.

I’m the last to be known at college, work and impromptu events, and by design. I have to read the room before anything else happens, which sometimes takes me a very long time. Quite often, nothing happens at all. I walk in, stand alone, and then walk out five years later. 

Despite my guardedness, bits of my clandestine life have eked out thanks to a chatty boyfriend, so the peppering of questions began. How cool, you were born in Hong Kong. Was your dad in the military? Or, I heard you saw David Bowie in his underwear once. Was he nice? Or, the ship you were on sank and everything? 

No, he wasn't. Yes, he was. Yes, it did.

The thing is, when a violet shrinks, it essentially hides. And so have I. But why? And what's up with all the drugs? 

Have you ever had to convince your mother not to shoot you? I have—more than once. I grew up in an alcoholic home involving violence, neglect and abuse. Negotiating Mum was my Six Flags and Scooby Doo rolled into one. Vigilance was my ally. Silence has been my saving grace.

Fantastic tools for a few endless years. Concrete shoes ever since.

I guess there is one question I’m asked more than any other these days by the friends, family and strangers who populate my contact list and Facebook. 

Where the hell have you been? 

I want to say to hell and back via Indianapolis and six months of inpatient treatment, but I haven’t dared to tell anyone anything yet. I've needed margaritas or meth since the day I left home to inhabit my self comfortably, let alone talk about it, and it’s early days yet.

But I’m getting there! 

Picture a stocky, sixty-year-old cycling furiously toward the camera on a kid’s bike with its training wheels flying off left and right. Cue the music. 

Look, Mum, I’m a movie star, after all!

Perseverance is easier said than done. But if you’re a sunflower, you’re a sunflower. And once you know that, you’re already shining.