Hey, Nan, Where’d You Go?

Teasing out the difference between being an introvert and isolating.

Photo credit: Michelle Marie Engelman Berns

Recently, a friend of mine disappeared. When I say “disappeared” I mean she stopped responding to texts and emails––not only from me, but from others in our circle. I didn’t think it was a forever disappearance, but I did begin to feel doubt after several attempts to get in touch. I haven’t known her for long, but when we met, we felt connected; we made each other laugh. We met virtually––and communicated using Zoom, texts, and email. The modes don’t matter, she’s my friend, regardless of how we correspond. The x’s and o’s going back and forth across the vast ocean separating us were real even though they were sent via the interwebs. I gave up texting after a time because she wasn’t responding. I knew enough about her history to understand that she was probably okay; maybe she was ducking out for a time to recharge or because of work or family matters, or maybe she was going through a slight depression. It touched a very tender place in me. The place of withdrawal and isolation, a place I’ve frequented too often in my own travels through life. I’m pretty sure the same is true for her. So, I had compassion for her MIA status and told myself to be patient.

Some time passed, and she came up in conversation, and that was all I needed to let my imagination get the better of me. My fantasies took hold, and I invented stories of the possible tragedies that might have taken place in her life. Of course, these stories only existed in my hyper-vigilant brain. Getting a status on her well-being became the most important thing to me. I’m good at finding people, and I had enough details about her life, relationship, and hometown to track her down. I called and left a concerned message and then I put my detective’s thinking cap on, stuck my briar pipe between my teeth and used my penchant for puzzle-solving to get an answer to the nagging question, was she okay?

My efforts were satisfied and we connected the other day by text, and she assured me that she was fairly well, all things considered (the details are unimportant), and she’d be in touch when she was ready to come back out and play.

I was relieved and a bit embarrassed that I’d been so persistent, but mostly, I’m glad to know that she’s out there, she’s safe, and caring for her needs. It made me look a little deeper at my actions. Was I worried by her disappearance for more than the most obvious reasons? Was there something going on with me that I was projecting onto her?

Was there a voice inside my head, saying “Pay attention, Nan. Is everything okay with YOU?”

There’s a little alarm that resides in my brain, and when I’m tuned in and listening for it, it’s a helpful tool for discerning what’s going on with me from day to day. The problem is sometimes I hit the snooze button on that alarm and go back to sleep. The alarm serves to keep me informed when all systems are not “go.” And when I realize I’ve hit that snooze button way too many times, it’s because my operating system is in the process of crashing. If I’m lucky, there’s still a window of time for me to troubleshoot the impending outage and take better care of me.

Just as there are times when I’m able to heed the warnings, there are also times when I ignore them completely and find myself in the world I refer to as Nine West. I’ve dubbed my occasional depressive dips with that moniker in memory of the psych unit I resided in for a couple of months about 15 years ago.

There are markers along the way, little signposts and messages that rise up and say things like, Hello? Are you in there? Or Hmmm, you haven’t seen any of your friends lately. You haven’t called anyone or even texted; and you haven’t returned their calls or texts, either. You haven’t been out of the house in days. Or maybe it’s a week or two? Hey, when was the last time you showered? When the shower question comes up, I know it’s almost too late to be proactive. Being proactive is difficult when I’m on the verge of or already immersed in ennui or the depths of something darker. It’s hard for me to see or do the things that might help boost me. But I have gotten better at it. I’ve got more tools.

I walk a fine line right before a possible crash because something befuddles me. Sorting out the difference between isolating due to low mood and being alone out of choice can be challenging. Being alone too much can slide into a low mood without my realizing it. Time disappears so quickly, often because I’m happily involved in the projects I’ve undertaken; I’m living my life. If I’m feeling lonely (which hardly ever happens) or crabby (which does happen occasionally), it’s a sign to pay attention. If I’m feeling peaceful and engaged, it’s all good, but it’s important for me to stay awake, to check in.

I’ve had a lot of practice being alone in this long life of mine. When I was a child, it was hard for me socially, so I became adept at entertaining myself. There were times when that was sweet and other times when it was painful. Learning how to navigate a somewhat solitary life made me feel self-sufficient and proud. But it also made me angry and sad. I nursed myself with sugar and I read an endless stack of books in my safe little bedroom. As I got older, I became better at making friends, and was more engaged in outside pursuits; but my fallback, my preference, has always been my quiet spaces.

It was years before I realized that I’m an introvert. For a long time, I didn’t understand that I could enjoy the company of other people and at the same time require the space for solitude as a way to reset, attend to my needs, and allow my creative self an opportunity to flourish. I define myself as an extroverted introvert. I love being in company until I need to step away. As wonderful as being with others can be, it saps me. Being alone is how I come back to myself and rejuvenate, but that can be a slippery slope if too much time goes by without real life interactions. There’s nothing that beats giving and receiving a good solid hug.

It’s easy to get caught up in the everydayness of life. I’m single, I live alone, I work at home, and my whole way of relating to the world has shifted since the pandemic and I relish Zoom mode as a great way to be with others; my friends, clients, colleagues, and my fellows in the 12 Step meeting I attend every day. And when I’m on Zoom, I get to wear my pajama bottoms every day, and no one knows––or do they, because we all do it? I know If I stopped going to my meetings, that would be the ultimate wake-up call that something wasn’t right with me. Over the last two years, meetings have become my daily spiritual practice.

And except for my four-legged pals––wonderful company in ways that human companions could never duplicate––I love living alone, I cherish it. And I know I can’t do life alone nor do I desire it. Balance between the two is essential.

I don’t get depressed as often as I used to. Not even close. But I must be mindful. Depression was my default for so very long, and being a person drawn to solitude can get muddled because it can become my way to hide. I do have to get out into the world, probably more often than I’m getting out at present. Numerous methods of healing have helped me navigate challenging times. Therapy, 12-Step work, medication, and writing and sharing my stories have all contributed to my operating system working more reliably.

Yesterday, I woke up and for the first time in months, I felt a tug of sadness. At first, I didn’t recognize it. I didn’t have a story attached to the emotion, I couldn’t source the reason, and that was fine. It didn’t take me down. I didn’t panic the way I used to, worrying that I was headed for something more disabling. I let it be, I was curious about the feeling, and I inquired of myself and of Grace. Grace is my spiritual pal. She’s always with me. I imagine she’s a tiny being who perches on my right shoulder and whispers encouragement into my ear all day long, every day. I let myself be and trust that being sad doesn’t mean more than that. I used to conflate the two, sadness and depression. I now know that feeling sad doesn’t have to become depression; they’re two distinct states. When I’m depressed, I feel very little. When I’m sad, I feel it all. And feeling it all is the best way for me to avoid another stay at Nine West.

1. It blows me away when readers decide to support my writing financially by becoming paid subscribers, so if you can or want to do that, thank you!

2. If paid subscriptions aren’t your thing, I love a good cup of coffee, too!

3. AND, there’s another thing that you can do that doesn’t cost a thing. On the top or bottom of the story, you can click on the heart and “like” my essay, click on the speech bubble and leave a comment, and/or click on the little spinny arrow thingies and restack the post (“restack” means “share” in Substackese). Those three actions will help me reach more readers!