Introvert Power

by Laurie Helgoe

  We want to create a world that is more respectful and we want and deserve respect. We cannot afford to wait for extroverts to get it. Introverts have the advantage of an inward perspective, and this is where we can start. How much respect do you give your introverted preferences?

  One of my introvert passions is writing. Although I have made space in my life for writing, and I am now fortunate enough to get paid to write, I still catch myself making statements like, "I can't [insert extroverted activity]; I have to write." At least this is true: I am often on deadline, and publishers expect me to produce. And "having to write" is a great excuse for getting out of things. I can use it any time, because there is always something to write.

  The lie here is subtler, but perhaps even more damaging to my integrity. While there are times I "have" to write, more than not, this is what I want to be doing. For me, apologizing for writing is like apologizing for time with a lover: "Sorry, I have to be with my true love." The content of what I am saying is true, but the implication is a betrayal of myself and a devaluation of what I love.

  I cannot find language of sufficient energy to convey my sense of the sacredness of private integrity.

  —Ralph Waldo Emerson

  Introvert integrity means going the distance for what we love: moving from apology to acceptance, from acceptance to acknowledgement, and from acknowledgment to activism. And just as distance running requires training, we build introvert integrity through practice. We give ourselves regular sessions of solitude. We find friends who listen. We exercise the right to talk less and think more. We allow others to be uncomfortable, disappointed, and different. We practice trusting our own thinking, even when the thoughts "are not like what anyone has taught" us.

  When you can say with a smile, "Yes, I'm not an Extrovert," people will want to know what you're up to. They'll wonder what they are missing out on by being so social. And, if they are wise, they'll back off, shut up and wait. Maybe they'll even apologize.

  Chapter 17:

  Celebrating

  Introversion

  [The Introvert] is...in good physical, emotional, and spiritual health...You will find her outside sitting on a large rock looking out over the water or inside looking out the window with a pensive appearance, sometimes reading... Yes, I like this person very much. She is me.

  —Donna

  Alienated? No. I feel very human; I think I'm more connected than most people.

  —Ben

  I enjoy horseback riding, reading, hiking, flower gardening...I like that I am not afraid to be alone. I am not afraid of being with myself. I can find lots of things to do if faced with time alone.

  —Julie

  I feel comfortable with my place in the universe. I'm at peace with my spirituality and humanity. I like my stubbornness. That tenacity is what allows me to stick with things until I'm done. I seldom look back and say, "I wish I'd tried harder."

  —Dave

  The person whose company I enjoy more than anyone's is my own.

  —Margit

  Introverts are alive and very well. In the midst of assaults from an extroverted society, pathologizing assumptions, lies, and pressures to conform, we are here—in larger numbers than extroverts! And the same quality that gets attacked, our inward focus, is what keeps us strong.

  To some degree, introverts will always be outside of society, and this is not only the key to our health, but to the health of society. We bring something "not of this world" to the world. We have access to a wealth that is not dependent on the gross national product—or subject to the national debt. We reflect while others move ahead. We invent while others rely on what is established. We seek while others produce. We create while others consume. We stay rooted while others waver.

  Introverts carry the yin function of life. Though personality tests describe introversion in a superficial (westernized) way, the ancient concept of yin tells us much more. Yin is dark, cool, and receptive, oriented to the moon and the earth. Time to turn out the lights and celebrate the introvert!

  LIFE IN THE DARK

  In Western society, "dark" has become synonymous with evil. We are taught to distrust what we cannot see. But darkness is also where dreams are made, where babies are formed, and where insights are discovered. The moon symbolizes the genius of introversion: the ability to illuminate this other side of life—the inner life.

  Darkness also represents the mysterious beauty of introversion. We are not completely knowable, and this is a key to our attractiveness. Where extroverts air their thoughts as they come, we keep ideas inside as we work them out. The ability to withhold gives us credibility: we are less likely to blurt out statements we can't support. In the 1980s, a commercial for the investment firm E. F. Hutton became a popular mantra: "When E. F. Hutton talks, people listen." I recall a boss of mine telling me, "When Laurie Helgoe talks, people listen." This was because I was often silent during team meetings, but when I spoke, everyone paid attention. And I had instant power.

  I spoke, everyone paid attention. And I had Introverts don't need to get everything out into the light. We focus better in the dark. Rather than putting all our cards on the table, we can wait until the time is right, until ideas are fully formed, and until people are ready to hear. I could waste a great deal of energy giving my perspective to a client, but if I wait until she asks for it—if I respond—my energy is matched by her interest, and she hears me. The squeaky wheel may get the grease, but people don't like to listen to it.

  [I have] a pronounced dark side (not evil, though) that is my "zone of refuge."

  —Phil

  Dark is also associated with depression, something that is as misunderstood as introversion. Clinical depression is an illness, but dark moods are part of life. In Western society, we keep coming up with new strategies for eliminating the dark. In the '50s, we had "the power of positive thinking"; in the '80s, "Feeling Good"... through positive thinking; and, in 2007, "The Secret" of... Well, positive thinking. Like Icarus, we convince ourselves that we can merge with the sun without getting burned.

  There is a lot to be said for positive thinking, and an exclusive focus on the negative can be destructive. But denial of the negative is just as dangerous. Extroverts describe themselves as happier than introverts; as we discussed in Chapter 7, "pleasantness" is a priority for extroverts. Extroverts like the light. Earlier, we challenged the assumption that "parties are fun." But there's an assumption within this assumption: fun is the ultimate goal.

  Here is the problem with evaluating someone else's reality with an assumption that is not shared. Extroverts want us to have fun, because they assume we want what they want. And sometimes we do. But "fun" itself is a "bright" word, the kind of word that comes with flashing lights and an exclamation point! One of Merriam-Webster's definitions of "fun" is "violent or excited activity or argument." The very word makes me want to sit in a dimly lit room with lots of pillows—by myself.

  It helps to think of introverts as people with sensitive night vision. We enjoy the comfort of darker surroundings, and there we are free to focus on the ideas that emerge. Pull us into the bright light, and our pupils close tight; we shield our minds from the harmful rays. Words like "party" and "fun" may turn us off, but try "intimate" or "casual," and we might want to hear more.

  Extroverts worry when we hang out in the dark, sometimes for good reason, but often because they fear the dark. Internal space is more threatening to extroverts, so they project their concerns onto us. The introvert, in the meantime, may be quite content. We are more trusting of the dark. We know that, if we allow our eyes to adjust, we can see. We know that the stars are brightest when the artificial light is extinguished. And we know that, like the stars, some truths only emerge after the lights go out. We revel in a more muted light.

  Q: What do you like best about being you?

  A: Resilience. I get depressed, disgusted, despairing, distraught, distended, disturbed, and deeply bummed. Two days later, I am playing guitar, mou
ntain biking in the backwoods, meditating in the deep night, writing the story of my life, nuzzled with my daughter watching "The Big Bang Theory," and all is fine and good.

  —Doug, who knows his way in the dark

  Introversion allows us to see what is less visible in the light: the world of ideas. Ideas, by their nature, start inside. They are original to the extent that they come from someplace else—from the "just right" mix of thoughts, and sometimes from dreams or sources we can't identify. Jung compared dreams to stars, warning that both are best seen obliquely; looking too directly causes the light to diffuse. The brightness of a star is dependent on the darkness of the sky.

  Similarly, a dark mood can illuminate neglected realities, reveal what is not working, and inspire change. I love the phrase "sweet melancholy," because it captures the paradoxical comfort that comes with pondering difficult realities. The verb "brood" comes from a Germanic the incubation that leads to hatching. Rescuing a brooding introvert may thwart the birth of an original idea!

  Introverts are drawn to mystery, complex ideas, and inner realities. If extroverts seek stimulation, introverts seek to be absorbed, to be fascinated. And, as we succeed in this endeavor, we become fascinating!

  Hail divinest Melancholy, Whose Saintly visage is too bright To hit the Sense of human sight.

  —John Milton, from Il Penseroso

  INTROVERTS ARE COOL

  Yin is associated with the coolness of earth, whereas yang holds the warmth of the sun. Extroverts want to heat things up; we like to chill out. We use words like "cool" and "chill" to refer to people who are relaxed, comfortable with themselves, and don't require a lot from the outside.

  Introversion holds the ability to step back, cool down, and get perspective. Heat may forge, but it takes cool to clarify. When people get too close to the action, they lose perspective and get lost. As a psychologist, I help people develop the capacity to keep a part of themselves out of the action, unaffected, cool. When this observing capacity is strong, it gives us the ability to not just live, but to know we are living. While one part of us plays out the drama, another part gets to sit in the dark of the movie theatre and watch. This is how we make meaning; this is how we learn.

  Introvertsmay seemcold as we pull away fromthe drama, but we're also the ones overheated extroverts seek out for perspective. And just as the darkness exposes unseen light, the removed perspective of the observer invites the warmth of meaning.

  WIDE RECEIVERS

  Yin is often described as a feminine function, because it is receptive and open. In this context, "feminine" does not refer only to females; in fact, the introvert-to-extrovert ratio is higher for men than for women. Clint Eastwood would probably not be confused with a female, but he has a strong yin function. He describes himself as quiet, receptive, and open to new learning. He describes himself as an introvert.

  Yet, the receptive function is no better captured than in the metaphor of birthing. Introverts take in raw materials and create something new. A writer takes in observations and creates a story. A scientist takes in evidence and produces a theory. A therapist listens and develops insight. The ability to receive and hold is essential to the creative process. The more receptive we are, the more complexity we can manage and the more we are able to integrate. The holding capacity of introversion gives ideas time to simmer, to incubate. When we give birth to ideas and books and inventions, we channel something larger than ourselves. We participate in creation.

  THE YIN CELEBRATION

  We celebrate introversion when we gaze at the beauty of a full moon. We touch introversion when we feel cool earth under bare feet and when we rest in the shade of a tree. We behold introversion in open expanses of nature and in uncluttered interiors. We savor introversion by candlelight and starlight, in the pages of a book, and in the meeting of minds.

  An introversion party is three people sprawled on couches and pillows, reading and occasionally talking. Or a couple cuddling by a fire at camp, savoring the music of crackling wood and crickets. Your introversion party might be a solitary walk where thoughts are exposed to air and become clear. You might find your party in meditation, when time expands and everything seems possible. Your party might come with popcorn as you passionately observe the big screen of the theatre, or with a steaming cup of Ethiopian blend as you watch people from your table at the coffeehouse, or with a cold beer as you watch the world go by from your porch.

  Notice introversion. Celebrate the subtle. Passionately wait. Make a date with the moon. Go barefoot. Tackle the tough questions. Have a really good conversation. Savor a glass of good wine or the delicate flavors of French food. Let an idea sit. Trust the dark and the unknown. Allow babies to remind you what comes of receiving, waiting, and trusting. Celebrate your natural specialty. And, while you're at it, raise a glass, mug, or whatever you have on hand to introverts everywhere, content in the knowledge that this celebration can take place right where you are.

  I use my thoughts to gain insight, sometimes empirically, sometimes intuitively. I often do not share my insight—for many different reasons. But while I often dwell in my own cave, I am not withdrawn in social situations and will readily reveal my opinions, display my abilities... For me, the excitement and action are internal.

  —Sandy, sixty and excited about her new career in technology

  Chapter 18:

  Expressing

  What's In There

  If you are not afraid of the voices inside you, you will not fear the critics outside you.

  —Natalie Goldberg

  While others chat, introverts listen, observe, analyze, and collect impressions. We also entertain ideas from internal sources: memories, dreams, reflections. In our minds, we work out theories, plan ahead, sort out what happened, converse, compose, draft, and design.

  Sometimes we feel weighted down by all that is inside. As ideas become fully formed and take on significance, we want and need to express them. Sometimes, we have no choice. I recall a time during my analysis when my psyche was churning out insights at an unprecedented rate. And feelings—ones I had been too scared to acknowledge—were now available to me. On an ordinary day during this extraordinary time, my husband made the mistake of saying something that set me off.

  I started screaming—not at him, though I was compelled to block his voice, to block anything more from coming in. The scream sounded foreign, and carried a power that both alarmed and satisfied me. I moved away from my husband, bent down on my knees. I knew I was supposed to stop; I had children in the house. But I didn't. It felt too good. I released another wave of raw, aggressive sound.

  I'll never forget my talk with my son that night. I apologized for scaring him, but I also told him what I had learned: I had let too much feeling build up inside me, and I needed to find a better way of letting things out—a way that didn't hurt me or the ones I loved.

  That was my only primal scream—except for the planned, collective scream I had joined during finals week at college. Perhaps I enjoyed my spontaneous scream so much because I knew I would never risk such a display again. But I have screamed on paper. I have screamed in plays. I have expelled power I didn't know I had in me.

  I remember a particular play rehearsal: my character, a bitter, angry woman, was confronting the man who had abandoned her, pregnant, many years ago. The director kept asking me for more: more anger, more venom, louder, scarier. I was thrilled! Here was a place where my "more" was safe.

  As my scream had revealed, I needed to find a big vehicle—or vehicles—for expressing myself. Introverts don't use the little vehicles, like small talk and rapid-fire conversation. Besides, we enjoy keeping ideas inside for awhile. But when we're ready, when the elements come together and we have something to say, we're really ready. In fact, we may feel ill or depressed if we don't get it out.

  WRITING IT OUT

  If Goth is an archetype of the introvert subculture, the writer is the archetype of the introvert. On the blank page, the writer's inn
er world rules. She can write anything, and nobody will interrupt or argue the point (at least until submission time!). Even when an author is not writing, she is living in her head, developing ideas or characters. And writing demands an extremely high tolerance for being alone.

  Writing also demands an extremely high tolerance for holding. I use the term "holding," as I did in the last chapter, in the sense that a pregnancy requires holding. When introverts are accused of withholding, the life-giving aspect of holding, or "growing an idea," gets overlooked. Holding is such a natural part of writing that even our literary mentors often take it for granted. Manuals on writing emphasize the discipline of "pen to paper," or "fingers to keyboard," but attend less to the writing that happens in your head. Author Carolyn See is an exception. She starts her book, Making a Literary Life, with the instruction to hold:

  The wonderful thing about your inner life is that it's your inner life. Think about your writing when you're making toast or suffering through a meeting at work or spacing out watching baseball on TV. Something's in your head, or your chest, that wants to get out. But keep it there for awhile.

  Introverts don't really need this advice; I include it to remind you that you're already halfway there! "Prewriting" is essential to good writing. But so is writing, and See recommends you hold onto your writing as well:

  Write your stuff, hide it, let it stack up. Reread it. Don't worry about it. Don't look for perfection. To switch metaphors, your first writing is as delicate as a seedling. Don't show it to some yahoo who wouldn't know an orchid from kudzu.