Finally, introverts can become the carriers of family and societal problems. Family systems theory talks about the identified patient as the family member who carries the pathology that the rest of the family denies. The alcoholic parent and the volatile marriage are not addressed, but the introverted child who takes it all inside becomes "ill" and goes to therapy. Taking on the pathology of others is a huge risk for introverts and one we will address in later chapters. As a therapist myself, I find that it is often the healthiest family member who enters therapy, because he is willing to look at the limitations of his own reality and risk change.
But now it seems that adults like me, particularly single women who much prefer familiar surroundings and one-on-one communications with people, are encouraged to work on our "issues," our social anxiety, and to get "out there" and learn the artful skill of making idle conversation with strangers. But why? In order to mingle well at parties.
—Suzanne, day job: outreach worker for a public defender team; passions: all things introverted, but "first and foremost" reading
THE ABANDONMENT OF THE INTERNAL
Though introverts may be more curious about psychology, psychology has become less curious about our inner lives. In the early 1900s, American practitioners were looking for more objective measures of mental health, and the new trend of radical behaviorism met the need. Suddenly, instead of focusing on what was hidden—the purview of psychoanalysis—behaviorism dismissed anything that could not be observed. All we needed to know was what goes in (stimulus) and what happens (response). So, the therapist's focus shifted from the client's disclosures of feeling to an external measure, such as the number of times she smiles during the session. (This is an actual example from my graduate training!)
Consider how this plays out for the introverted client. She acknowledges feeling burdened and seeks help. She is readily diagnosed for her internal focus, but then the tables turn: she is deprived of the opportunity to seek inner solutions. Her "cure" involves shifting her focus to external realities—using her least developed capacity.
Though radical behaviorism has gradually given way to cognitive-behaviorism, which does acknowledge inner processes, the value of external over internal has remained. And insurance companies loved the idea. Physicians, as well as therapists, are no longer paid to be curious about what's inside and to search for a cause—we are rewarded for finding the shortest path between symptoms and solution, and if we don't get it right, the attitude is "they can always come back and you can try something else."
So, if we've decided that what's inside is out of the picture, introverts will look inferior. The introvert's strong suit is inside. There, he is comfortable, confident, and content. By contrast, the extrovert "inside" might not look so good—he becomes anxious and awkward when he's not out doing something or talking to someone. But who cares? Just as we don't see the strength of the introvert, we don't notice the weakness of the extrovert. What's inside is locked away in the black box.
From the outside, the introvert may not look so good, and we do care about this. If a child stays quiet in the context of extroverted friends, or even prefers time alone, a parent may worry and even send her to therapy. She might be thrilled—she'll finally get to talk about the stuff she cares about, and without interruption! But if the therapist concludes that the child has a social phobia, the treatment of choice is to increasingly expose her to the situations she fears. This behavioral treatment is effective for treating phobias — if that is truly the problem. If it's not the problem, and the child just likes hanging out inside better than chatting, she'll have a problem soon. Her "illness" now will be an internalized self-reproach: "Why don't I enjoy this like everyone else?"The otherwise carefree child learns that something is wrong with her. She not only is pulled away from her home, she is supposed to like it. Now she is anxious and unhappy, confirming the suspicion that she has a problem.
Under normal conditions, the introvert places less value on what is outside, and puts less energy there. Briggs Myers described this outside self as the Aide to a General:
The introvert's General is inside the tent, working on matters of top priority. The Aide is outside fending off interruptions...If people do not realize that there is a General in the tent who far outranks the Aide they have met, they may easily assume that the Aide is in sole charge. This is a regrettable mistake. It leads not only to an underestimation of the introvert's abilities but also to an incomplete understanding of his wishes, plans, and point of view. The only source for such information is the General.
Though the metaphor of a General may or may not fit your tastes, it is an image of power. Whether your tent is a busy laboratory or a vast library, a creative studio or spiritual sanctuary, your inner world is the place where the action is, where your heart starts pumping, and your potential expands. And like the General in the tent, we can move the world. But first, we need to recognize that someone is there.
WE ARE INTROVERTS
What constitutes an introvert is quite simple. We are a vastly diverse group of people who prefer to look at life from the inside out. We gain energy and power through inner reflection, and get more excited by ideas than by external activities. When we converse, we listen well and expect others to do the same. We think first and talk later. Writing appeals to us because we can express ourselves without intrusion, and we often prefer communicating this way. Even our brains look different than those of extroverts.
In 1967, psychologist Hans Eysenck published his "arousal theory" of introversion and extroversion, which predicted that introverts would have higher levels of cortical arousal than extroverts. In other words, introvert brains would be more stimulated on an ongoing basis; extrovert brains would be quieter. This would explain why introverts pull away from environmental stimuli while extroverts seek out more.
To test the theory, researchers have looked at various measures of mental stimulation, such as blood flow and electrical activity, in the brains of introverts and extroverts. The consistent finding was that, as predicted, introvert brains were busier than extrovert brains. After summarizing this research, the writers of the 2003 MBTI Manual concluded: "Introverts appear to do their best thinking in anticipation rather than on the spot; it now seems clear [emphasis mine] that this is because their minds are so naturally abuzz with activity that they need to shut out external distractions in order to prepare their ideas." So it is impossible to fully and fairly understand introversion without looking inside. We aren't just going away, we're going toward something. Extroverts may have more going on socially, but we've got more going on upstairs.
The simple preference for inner life, when honored, opens the introvert to a richness and complexity that is highly personal and is indeed personality with the exclamation point! Instead of defining—or diagnosing—introversion from the outside, let's look at a description by a man who mined the depths of inner life, Carl Jung:
For him self-communings are a pleasure. His own world is a safe harbour, a carefully tended and walled-in garden, closed to the public and hidden from prying eyes. His own company is the best. He feels at home in his world, where the only changes are made by himself. His best work is done with his own resources, on his own initiative, and in his own way...His retreat into himself is not a final renunciation of the world, but a search for quietude, where alone it is possible for him to make his contribution to the life of the community.
I am rarely bored alone; I am often bored in groups and crowds.
—Don, Minnesota
As much as introverts may be misunderstood or devalued, people are drawn to the richness we conceal and enjoy the products we create in our "tents." The reclusive songwriter entertains through the computer audio system developed by introverts. Voices of introverts speak through books so varied we can be entertained by just looking at the titles in a bookstore. Introverts make us think and ask questions. We fall silent as the quiet person in the room reveals wisdom from his inner reservoir.
; Introverts, it is time for us to claim our space, our time, and our vitality. If the rest of you want what we've got, welcome! But don't come over—get an inner life! We Are Introverts, and we are going home.
Chapter 2:
Alone Is Not a
Four-Letter Word
The great omission in American life is solitude; not loneliness, for this is an alienation that thrives most in the midst of crowds, but that zone of time and space, free from the outside pressures, which is the incubator of the spirit.
—Marya Mannes
You're headed home on a Friday evening. Exhausted from a week of interacting, performing, and responding to others, you relish the prospect of time alone, cuddling up or stretching, reading or puttering—inhabiting the silent space. You stop at the bookstore and run into an acquaintance who asks what you are doing tonight. You tell her, and she looks worried. You take in the look of worry and start to wonder if there is something wrong with you. Everyone else seems to want to go out.
Let's say your self-doubt prompts you to go out, and you stop by a party that a friend is hosting. Your friends are surprised and happy to see you, validating your choice. But soon into the greetings, you feel as if you've left something behind. You start regretting the choice "everyone else" encouraged. Feeling the "alienation that thrives most in the midst of crowds," you long to be alone, free to think your own thoughts and move to your own rhythm. But you haven't been here long enough to leave; you feel trapped.
This "alienation of association" is widespread in our culture, but it has no diagnostic label. Regardless of how dead we feel in a crowd, we cling to the uniquely American assumption that associating is good and necessary and solitude is suspect. Let's imagine the above scenario going the opposite way:
When you stop by the bookstore, you tell the acquaintance you are going to a party. She looks worried, and expresses concern about all you'll miss. She comments, "You've been waiting all week for some time to yourself; why would you compromise that?" If you've been spending a lot of time with people, she might express concern that you are avoiding time alone and suggest that you might be depressed.
While such a response is unlikely, it's a comment an introvert would appreciate. For an introvert, interacting in a group setting does mean missing out. Where there is too much input, the introvert misses his mind, his subjectivity, his freedom, his very potential. The high-stimulus social environment, the "where it's at on a Friday night," this apparent "more," becomes a prison to the introvert. He can't wait to be free—to get out and away from the noise, the talk, the interference with his inner process. Yet, the discrepancy between his mood and his surroundings may lead to self-criticism, the hallmark of depression.
Solitude is not rejection, isolation, depression, or a sign of spiritual desolation.
—Don, Unitarian Universalist minister and avid baseball fan
It would be wise to be concerned about the introvert who is deprived of solitude. Is she neglecting herself due to depression? Is she falling victim to guilt and self-reproach? Does she feel cut off from pleasure? Does she feel dead?
"Where it's at" for the introvert is in the expansive space of solitude. This is where the introvert is fed, calmed, moved, and inspired. Our training tells us to worry about solitude and to limit it, and our language places the social world at the center: we withdraw (from something) or retreat (from something) or isolate ourselves (from something). We have a verb for interacting with people—socializing—but have no single, affirmative verb to describe being alone. We tend to view alone time either as a problem to be overcome or a luxury we cannot afford—not as a staple we all need. We're not just social animals. We are solitary animals as well.
But if we look closer, we discover that many verbs capture solitary experience: daydreaming, meditating, fantasizing, calculating, planning, thinking, theorizing, imagining, praying, observing, composing, reflecting, inventing—and this list doesn't even include typically solitary activities like reading, drawing, researching, and writing. Solitude is not lack. As understood by Taoist practitioners, solitude is a "fertile void," an open door to a world overflowing with possibilities.
In another sense, most of what we do is solitary. We may have lots of people around, but the path each of us takes is our own. Yet, the expectation that we attach ourselves to others leaves many of us feeling lonely and alienated. What if we referred to social interaction as withdrawal from solitude? What if we viewed solitude as the center of experience and made sure that our kids were equipped to handle it?
Solitude is indeed "the great omission in American life." We are told to have family values, to be a team player, to have a huge wireless network. More is better and there is never enough. How did we get so far away from ourselves?
In any ultimate sense, we are alone, and the sooner we accept it the sooner we can move on to life's real work: making a difference and becoming a blessing to the large number of people we know who are hurting and are less fortunate.
—Phil, Minnesota
THE CULTURE OF MORE
American consumerism relies on this assumption: If only you had _____, you would have the life you desire. That shiny new car will make you better looking, happier, and more successful. More products will provide you more time, which you can fill by purchasing more products. And, to clinch the sale, the commercial reminds us that everybody else already has one.
We have become a culture of "everybody else." Through our constantly expanding media channels, we can know what people are (supposedly) buying, how people are (supposedly) behaving, and what expectations others (supposedly) have for us. Reality television further erodes our sense of privacy and personal space: not only are the participants in our living room, but we're also in theirs!
In the typical American sitcom, people walk into each other's homes or apartments without knocking, flop on the couch, and start talking about their problems. Hip adults mingle in an ensemble of friends—a group of people who are interchangeably important to each other. Intrusion is the norm; if one friend leaves the room, another one enters; cool people are never alone. No matter if the friend is annoying or selfish; more is better.
Having more friends is equated with more fun, even more value. In a democratic society, more popular means more power. The buzzword of the '80s, "networking," became the ticket to success. In an increasingly public society, the emphasis shifts from quality to visibility; from good products to good marketing; from knowing to being known. There is no time; we need to "git 'r done" and "get out there." Is it any wonder that anxiety disorders have become the common cold of American life? We live much of our lives in panic mode, grasping for more without considering why. We're like children running into the streets to grab the candy thrown from the parade float, only to realize that the cheap morsels taste funny.
This "more" mode convinces us that solitude and reflection are too costly to risk. The parade is moving on and we need that candy! And if you're trying to be a success, you need to throw out as much as possible—flood the Internet with your message, pop up on everyone's screen, reach the people.
In a great little book titled Purple Cow, marketing analyst Seth God in argues that more advertising is no longer better, that people no longer see or hear the flood of messages coming their way. Instead of mass marketing a product, he advocates creating a remarkable product—a purple cow—that sells because it's not a part of the more. His wisdom rings true for anyone who is sick of seeing penis enlargement spam on his computer screen.
Though a different kind of "more" comes with solitude, we benefit from the "less" side of solitude as well. For an introvert especially, movement away from the group allows access to a more independent, questioning, and honest voice—a voice that could make all the difference.
THE THREAT OF SOLITUDE
In a competitive culture, it helps to know what others are up to. Once you find out what others are doing, you can figure out how to do better—just better enough to get the business. But what
happens when the competition doesn't let you in? You might get nervous, thinking that the other party is withholding something really big or planning some kind of takeover. The solitary party is going to get ahead, or worse. The reflexive attitude becomes, "something is being planned, and it might hurt me."
Although most introverts seek time alone as an alternative to people and competition, solitude is a power source for the introvert. And for someone wanting to exert control, solitude is indeed threatening. Many sales schemes rely on "today only" impulse purchases because "sleeping on it" will help you realize that you don't need the product. Cults gain their power by depriving members of any time alone. Clients in my office comment on what a difference it makes to have time to think, and value psychotherapy for its attention to inner processes. As inner strength builds, people find the courage to leave abusive relationships, to embark on new challenges, and to ask for what they want.
Every now and then, a disturbed loner misuses the power of solitude, feeding paranoia and planning destruction. These are the private figures that get public attention, and they do harm to introverts everywhere, contributing to our collective fear of solitude. But, by definition, introverts are not preoccupied with people and external events. They are drawn to ideas and concepts, and are able to explore these freely in solitude. More often, a tendency to pull inward is associated with a lower risk of violence. On the Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory, for example, the social introversion scale is considered an inhibitory scale—one of the indicators that, when elevated, is associated with lower levels of delinquency.
The potentially violent loner is, ironically, externally focused. Rather than accepting and enjoying his preference for solitude, he focuses on his resentment of the group, seeing himself as a solo victim entitled to revenge. When this happens, solitude can become dangerous indeed, leaving room for his paranoid distortions and growing hatred. Here's the rub: the very distortions that place him outside of the group are ones we perpetuate in our society. The introvert is not a minority; at least half of us are on a similar plane. Half of us get worn out when we are around people for too long. Half of us are bored—some, to tears—by gossip. Half of us get an energy boost from reflective time. Beyond that, Jung would argue that half of every individual is introverted. Any extrovert who takes the MBTI will notice that, though her score for extroversion is higher than the one for introversion, she's got some introversion. And, according to Jung, what isn't being used in conscious life is resting in the unconscious, ready to emerge as the individual grows.
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