Doubtless, more than half of me is introverted. I've confirmed this with Meyers Briggs, but I still have to remind myself that after a period of social activity, I need to decompress. And I need to be understanding with myself, rather than flogging myself for turning inward and shutting down for a bit. But I'm not always so understanding because I wonder if I'm confusing my introversion with the mild depression I am known to experience.
It's not that I am particularly sad during these periods of reclusiveness. I do, however, experience anxiety, and I can't determine whether or not that anxiety is a byproduct of worrying that I am not getting anything done or a concern that I might actually be depressed. During these episodes, I tend to sleep a lot and have little drive. I force myself to get things done for the sake of feeling productive. I put off necessary tasks and even basic hygiene, making sure I am dressed and active by the time the kids come home from school, but feeling no desire to do so before then. I worry that if it weren't for the kids and absolute commitments, I might never get anything done, might not even leave the house. And yet, here I sit writing, having taken care of the pets and at least one phone call. True, blogging isn't work per se, but writing is part of who I am. When I neglect to write, I neglect myself.
I write best in solitude, on my standard PC, in silence. Laptops have never agreed with me, with their flat keys and feeling of being non-substantive. Seat close to the floor, I can cross my legs, lean right or left and rest my fingers on the keyboard as I wish. If I make typos, I fix them as best I can, but having to edit doesn't really bother me, since I have no deadline. Yet it's precisely this lack of a deadline that I struggle with. If I don't have one, I often procrastinate or even avoid. If I do have one, I become stressed. And so, here I sit blogging about process, getting nothing more done than examining myself and chocking it up to introversion.
Perhaps if I were not so self-judgmental, I wouldn't be bothered by any of this. Were I a better Buddhist, I would just accept my disposition, remembering that everything passes and that moments are meant to be experienced, no matter what the moment might bring, even if it's sleep or dreaming.
Dreaming is one reason I am attracted to sleep. My dreams are vivid, often lucid, bringing me interesting places. My life is not terribly exciting, after all, though I have enough of everything and experience joy often. It occurs to me just now that maybe I am bored or merely too content to let life do what it will as I sit here typing.
If I were James Joyce, most likely, I would be writing this in a stream of consciousness. Since I am sleepy, I am somewhat doing so, except my sentences are standard and I am editing as I go. This is not a free-write, but it is a mind-purge of sorts. Given my sleepiness, it's a wonder I have anything to purge at all.
Having written all this, I don't feel I've reached any conclusions, nor have I done anything especially meaningful, other than grease the gears for more writing. There's a poem lurking in my mind. I don't know what it is yet, but perhaps if I dream a little more, it will come to me. Hopefully, I won't feel guilty about taking the time to let it happen.