In the Role of "Best Extrovert..."

I owe the title of this post to my mother. She messaged me nearly two weeks after returning to the States, once classes had begun for the fall. “Are you winning the Oscar for Best Extrovert?”

You see, my mother knows me pretty well by now. She understands that I am not wired to conquer the rooms which I walk into. She once compared my father’s introversion to someone needing to be led by the hand out of a cave. That’s my temperament as well; my dad and I can just be lovingly insulted together, however true it may be.

I first drafted this post when I received her message. Title only, waiting since early September. The thought was to wait and see how the socializing came, whether I actually earned that Oscar or not. In the meantime a little worry bloomed: would the honest reflection on this part expose me? Too late now for privacy. Should’ve thought of that before you publicly committed to a blog and built it for nine weeks. But isn’t the introversion—Start with the first word. You will somehow survive, you hermit crab.

Objectively as I can judge myself, I’d say that I could hold the statue by effort alone. But ultimately that’s not the prize I’m interested in. Wearing myself out to meet people, if I emphasize the persistence it took, is ultimately a hollow kind of thing. The activity of steady socializing is in pursuit of a group, of belonging. That’s the whole point, however often the energy required makes me lose sight of it. That is, until the moment descends where I realize—feel, very keenly—that I still haven’t found the group I belong to.

Not that the scores of people I’ve met aren’t lovely, inviting, or available. Largely, the other students I’ve encountered are not locking me out of the circle. Implying anything like that would be untrue and unfair. Since September I have enjoyed good laughs, savory meals, godly worship, and raucous fun with other people who I rightly call my friends. Just this past week, friends I met early in the fall hosted a party to celebrate my birthday, cake and cards and all. Don’t read in my thoughts here that any of them have failed or excluded me.

The trouble is, this fall is only a shortened, quick season. Things have been transitory since May, nearly half a dozen different beds, and my stay here is no different. Sixteen weeks might not be enough time to recreate the close-knit community I only fully recognized once I had left it. Any friendships worth having take time and effort; I have given and received the latter, but the former began trickling away at the airport.

Add to the one disadvantage the conundrum of travel. In my limited amount of time, I’ve come to develop what I’ll call the “Saturday Itch.” It starts Thursday afternoon, just as a bit of anticipation. Friday sees it become worse. The only relief comes Saturday morning, when I lock the front door behind me to spend the day somewhere new. The urge to go, via bus or train, complicates the friend endeavor. Of course, I try to invite others and travel with them when I can. But not everyone has the time, the means, or the “Saturday Itch.” In a season of travel, solo return tickets have become normal.

Choosing to go seems the best option. No one likes wearing loneliness like a heavy coat, least of all me. But I can’t justify letting the chances to capitalize on Ireland slip away. Not to myself, and not while my time here is so short and so unlikely to happen again. Accordingly, a good bit of my weekends are spent wide-eyed and tight-lipped, seeing so much and having so few to explain it to. These days are also blessings, even if the ingredients I would want can’t all be included. My admitting to loneliness isn’t fishing for pity, and I try not to allow myself any of it. I am blessed with the chance, the means, and the location to expand what I know and understand. The privilege is worth the days where I have two conversations at most.

All of this, which might read so clean-cut and well-defined, came only after a web of doubt. Before I was reluctant to write this post, I was reluctant to reach out to friends back home and admit how I was struggling. I felt like a failure more than once. Ireland had rebutted some of the sincerest hopes which I had brought to her, and how could I admit that?

By admitting it, that’s how. Owning up to the fact that while I’ve tried, things still remain undone. I’ll be at the bus stop, surrounded by my bags, in just a matter of weeks; some things might end up incomplete. Hiding that travel is imperfect would give only a disservice. Even if I would still want to clutch the award for extroversion and effort too tightly. For me, for all of you, for God, I’d rather be honest.