I read this article from HuffPo today, and it really got me thinking.

In the article, the author talks about how for a long time, she thought she was an extrovert, but then felt ashamed of her desire for copious amounts of alone time. How she hates going to social events, and would rather be home reading or puttering around the house or cuddling her dog.

She didn’t realize she was an introvert. She thought she was an extrovert who hated people. And something in her reluctance to accept that she was an introvert really resonated with me and my issues.

For me, the evidence is clear. I am an introvert. Social time drains me, even when I am enjoying myself. I don’t know how to mingle and, to be honest, that word makes me intensely uncomfortable. I like working by myself and hate the idea of having to collaborate. I am quite happy in my own little world most of the time. I don’t feel the need for a lot of social stimulation. I am definitely the sort of person who wants a small number of close friends rather than numerous shallow friends. In fact, to be honest, I think it is impossible to have more than five or six real friends. The rest are just acquaintance. There is only so much friendship any one person can generate.

I don’t want to chat with taxi drivers, servers, cashiers, or other random people. I don’t want the manager of the restaurant to recognize me and sit down and strike up a conversation. I don’t like bright, noisy environments and would rather be where it is medium dark and quiet so I can hear myself think. When the masses go one way, I invariably go the other. I am an edge of the herd dweller.

The fact that I love good conversation more than nearly anything else in this good green world and that I am a loving and caring person doesn’t change the diagnosis one iota. I am an introvert, period.

But I don’t want to be. And that is the problem.

I want to be an open, friendly, adaptable person who can go anywhere and fit in and be totally comfortable. I want to be approachable and kindly and understanding. I want to be vibrant and dynamic and charming and just plain a wonderful person to be around. I want to make people happy just by being around. I want to be fun and funny and fantastic.

I want to be Fruvous.

And sometimes I am. But only in a virtual text-based environment. Because I am a furry and spend a lot of time pretending to be an idealized version of myself free of my issues and inhibitions, I have created and preserved a version of myself that is, in many ways, radically different than the real thing.

And that means I never have to face the issue of who I really am. And it means that I have, in a sense, a bifurcated personality. Some things I express in the real world. Others I express as my other self. Both are expressions of who I really am, but one is real and one is fictional, and I am starting to think that it might be time to end the masquerade and see what’s under my mask.

The thing is, I am ashamed of my real self. And my medical diagnoses has helped underscore that shame. I can lump all the introverted things about myself under the umbrella of “social anxiety” and treat them as pathological, and not actually “me” at all.

And it keeps alive the idea that somehow, someday I will heal and grow and recover, and then I will be the idealized version of myself, and everything will be wonderful.

And in the meantime, I can continue to be ashamed of my “antisocial” tendencies. And I can continue to feel weird and guilty when I “admit” to being an introvert, despite all the evidence. It’s like somewhere deep down, I feel like being introverted means being a cold, hostile, bitterly defensive hermit, and that’s the opposite of who I want to be.

Even worse, it’s the opposite of how I see myself.

No really, the fictional version of me that I pretend to me online is the real me! Surely there’s nothing wrong with that, right? I’m not really the emotionally cramped and constipated guy who is only comfortable in academic situations who can spend an entire day completely alone and only start feeling lonely somewhere around midnight. I’m not really the cerebral cripple who hides from the light.

No, I am the open, friendly, hilarious, adorable version of myself who easily approaches strangers and who radiates warmth and wit and wonder.

You know, the version who’s a fox. From space.

The real issue is the guilt and shame. That is what is keeping me from fully accepting that I am an introvert, full stop, and there’s nothing wrong with that. It doesn’t mean I am cold or mean or sour. It doesn’t mean I am hostile and defensive and bad to be around.

I can be both a nice person and an introvert.

I just need to dream up a new version of myself that includes that idea. I am a quiet, bookish, introverted, gentle, sensitive person who is a very sweet fellow.

But the thing is, there is still another side of me that is a big, bold, obnoxious fellow who wants to live large without holding back.

I have so many sides to my personality. It’s crazy. No wonder I have always felt like a five dimensional peg in a world full of two dimensional holes. Three if you’re lucky.

Still, I know what comes next, at least. Make peace with my introversion. Uninstall the notion that introvert = bad person. Open myself up to drawing boundaries to keep myself safe. Maybe then I can feel more comfortable going out in the world.

Because now, I have my armor on.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.