On Introversion.

Have you ever tried not talking to anyone, not another living soul, for a week? Longer? It can be difficult.

Have you tried talking after that? It's even worse.

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I've mentioned in passing how I can get very tired of people. Not fed up with somebody, or upset or anything like that, just exhausted by the very idea of socialising. Don't get me wrong; I love people. Especially the ones I have in my life right now. But I can get tired. Very easily.
In every venue I had to visit regularly- halls, clubs, other people's houses- I have a sanctuary that I've found, and will visit regularly. Cupboards, spare rooms, bathroom stalls, just somewhere to be alone. I remember being in an unfamiliar club one night, and it was just so busy. I had lost everyone I knew trying to find some refuge, and ended up trying to leave through the fire escape- before getting physically hauled back in by bouncers. I still don't know why bouncers would try and keep "unruly" customers inside. I thought that was the opposite of what they did.

The worst I've felt it was maybe a couple of months ago. I'm not entirely sure why it happened, but it did. I just couldn't bear the thought of seeing anybody. And to complicate matters, the more I stayed in my hidey-hole, the harder it was to get out, as if each passing moment in my room was making myself more of a wretch than I was before, something I couldn't show anybody. I stopped sleeping right. I ate my meals in private, when people were long asleep. Hallmates assumed I was absent. I felt like I was festering.
I remember accidentally running into a friend one night, as I had to pick something up from another kitchen- he had a similar aversion to sleep- and I couldn't speak. Couldn't. I was struck like frightened prey, and the only sound my throat would make were scratched, wounded noises. Like a whispered howl. And so, with eyes affixed to the floor, I hastily scurried away.


I have no illusions how pathetic it was. I would hear people, friends, passing my door, and I would freeze in panic. Cold sweats. If somebody had knocked or wanted something, I really wouldn't know what to do.
I was blindsided by the prospect of having to communicate with another human being- people I knew and admired.


I vomited twice the day I decided I would leave my room. Which was fine by me, it gave me an excuse put off my task for the day. I think I went through the entire morning routine of teeth-face-shower-hair-clothes about three times over six hours.
But it went fine.
They didn't ask too many questions, they smiled, we talked. It went fine.


I'm still frightened of when it will strike again. Or of how much I've alienated those close to me with my isolation. Of how ungrateful, inconsiderate I must appear to my friends. I'm not. I love them, I need them.  It's difficult to tell if this new unease I feel is just me.

I believe knowledge is a responsibility

as is the sharing of it. There is information that should be freely available to everyone. There should be public access to every religious text, enlightening or disgusting, and every paperback that damns them, well-intentioned or not. We should be able to know everything that happened on every warfront, what happened beyond enemy lines and beneath government censor. I struggle to think of a single book that deserves burning. Even if the information inside is horrendous or criminal, it should be released, to those who want it. The solution isn't suppressing lies, but releasing truth. I'll burn the house of someone who withholds Mein Kampf just as soon as the house of whoever suppresses The Catcher in the Rye.
(Can you believe how relevant this is so far to current events? Just noticed. I'm so good)

But I also believe that there is knowledge we hide everyday, rightly. Some things are best left alone. I'm finding it hard to tell the difference between information I shouldn't share, or can't.