Be Yourself and Don't Aim for Perfection

I'll never forget the first time I thought I might be an introvert; it was my 25th birthday, and I was sleeping in my bed curling sheets in the middle of the day. I thought to myself as I put in my earplugs, knowing that the apartment was empty: “This is not the behavior of someone who likes to socialize.” I had invited some close friends I love so much to my birthday.

Note: This article is based on children's author Annabel Pitcher, in which she talks about accepting our nature as it is.

But as usual, once they left, I felt the desperate need to be alone in the dark and calm, so my husband left for the gym while I chose to sleep to recharge.

I thought to myself: "Maybe not everyone has to mix with others." I was trying to sleep to have some rest. After I felt tired of receiving my guests, that day was worse than usual, especially after I doubled my stress in preparing for Christmas and receiving many people in my small apartment. In the last hour of my party, I was counting the minutes that separate me from being alone in my bedroom to have some rest, as if I needed solitude to return to my nature, and feel myself again.

Sitting in my dark room, I thought that people don't show signs of uneasiness when they're with others, that they might enjoy their birthday parties or like to have short discussions, or might not hide when seeing people who know, or that they might be able to participate in a conversation in all circumstances.

I ridiculed myself for these ideas because people are not different from me because we all get nervous when mixing with people, and we all want to hide, and this is what I have been telling myself for five more years.

I was eager to be open and social effortlessly. There are signs of this; I loved to take to the stage, and I found happiness in attending cultural events and talking about my novels. I could have my own dinner party and invite people to my house all the time although I was obsessed with them for hours before they happened, and I rushed to my room as soon as my guests left. I think I was hospitable.

The same thing happened to me at university. I preferred to stay at home and read instead of going to parties with my friends, and the irony is that I was turning into an entertainer when I went to feel obligated to do that, so I was complimenting people and talking to them. Although my voice did not help me, I felt that I had to scream to hear me in the atmosphere of loud music.

I was exhausted by the effort, and I often felt that my head would explode whenever I pretended to laugh at a joke I did not hear because I was straying from my mind, which was trying to explain it and tell me what to do next to look more social. I rarely focused with all my strength on what was happening in front of me, and I could not do so except in my home while reading or writing my stories, so I felt that fantasy was more realistic for me because my social life was a lie.

I could continue to pretend for a few hours at a time, and at university, I would go into the bathroom to be able to take a break from communicating with others. When I moved to London, I would secretly go to the cinema after work, so that I could delay my return to the house I shared with my friends. And at my first job, I would spend lunch breaks alone reading books to avoid canteen congestion, and when my husband and I were traveling, we would avoid other travelers and have superficial conversations with them so as not to ruin our vacation.

Moreover, I was writing my first novel at the time, and I preferred to spend many hours communicating with my characters without strangers. Still, I worked hard to hide my introverted nature, even from myself.

For the first 30 years of my life, if you asked me where I fall on the scale of introversion and open-mindedness, I would answer that I am at the top of open-mindedness, so what if I was a little quiet between me and myself? In  public, I was friendly, self-confident, and determined to show myself, but this was exactly the problem, as everything I did was out of love to appear, and I thought that the social person was a competent human being. I admit that I found it difficult, and I was like telling the world that I was defective in some way, or that I was inferior to others. That's what I learned in the end, and so I pretended until I could no longer pretend.

In my late twenties, I suffered from anxiety, depression, and exhaustion from the failed attempt to live up to the ideal version of myself that I had built up in my mind. I simply couldn't do it for a second. The gap between my identity that I presented to the rest of the world and my core identity was so big. I had to do something to fill it, so I consulted a therapist and practiced meditation and reading.

It took a tremendous amount of painstaking effort, self-compassion, and relearning. Still, now I can honestly say that I have given up on wanting to be anything other than what I am now, so I am not open, not even close to others, but I am proud, complete, and introverted.

I like to hide from others, which is fine because for everything that makes introversion difficult. I am rewarded a thousand times more with the things that make it easy, and my introverted nature allows me to be attentive, patient, and empathetic, deeply influenced by poetry, nature, and art to feel the general atmosphere of the place or the mood of a member of my family, and to know deeply how to behave.

Strangely enough, it enables me to be a better public speaker and a more considerate host because I am fully aware of the levels of boredom in others. Introversion means that I am happy to travel on my own and that I am self-sufficient, thinking, and dreaming with big plans, which drives me to seek silence, unity, spirituality and, above all, enhances my greatest passion, which is writing.

My latest novel, Silence is Goldfish, is about a 15-year-old introvert girl; the happiest girl on the planet, isolated as Pluto is in the solar system, while her father wants her to be as close to people as Mercury is to the sun. She spent her life wearing her fake personality mask to please others until she discovers her family's devastating secret that makes her speechless. The story revolves around how to find her voice to be able to speak again and accept her introverted self.

It's something I'm learning to do, too. On my birthday this year, at age 34, I finally dared to organize the kind of celebration I might really enjoy. I booked myself into a hotel and spa and spent 24 happy hours in total isolation, and I felt so much better.