Introversion in a Time of Loss
April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
June, not April, has been the cruellest month this year for me—my father’s death coming less than two weeks after my mother suffered a stroke.
While waded through this loss and near-loss, Facebook reminded me we lost our family labs in June a few years ago, only weeks apart.
My father’s funeral presented to me, then, in one hour most of the social and family interactions I have been avoiding for decades. I weathered the repeated “I bet you don’t recognize me” and hand shakes along with hugs that included extended holds.
When my two nephews and I drove away after the ceremony and receiving of friends, I explained that I would not be joining others for lunch; I was eagerly awaiting being alone in my car for the nearly hour-long drive to see my mother still in a rehabilitation center.
This was likely the first time I had confessed to them that I am an introvert, a twin companion to my lifelong adventures in anxiety. Neither confession—”I am an introvert” or “I suffered from anxiety and depression”—ever goes very well.
The response is mostly a well-meaning discounting of my sincere sharing. No one believes me because my masking techniques, my defense mechanisms are incredibly well honed.
Introverts must do the heavy lifting of adjusting to the world—yet even more stress heaped onto this predisposition no one would choose.
The drive alone and stopping to eat alone helped me begin to recharge; introversion, you see, is less about being shy or reclusive (although we can be and often are both) and more about what is emotionally draining and how we regain our energy, our peace and calm.
Then, when I arrived at my mother’s facility, her room was packed with her Introversion in a Time of Loss | radical eyes for equity: