Introversion and Isolation

Tarun Prasad

March 10, 2020. It was early in the morning on this fateful day that the decision to send the students of Harvard College back home in response to the COVID-19 pandemic would be announced. With barely six days’ notice to pack up and leave, my first and most immediate concern was finding a flight that would take me halfway across the globe to India and drop me off at home. Once I had that sorted, I heaved a sigh of relief and began to fret about other relatively mundane concerns: adapting to online classes, attending lectures at ungodly hours, giving up the ability to meaningfully collaborate on assignments, and losing access to the invaluable resources and spaces on campus. The issue that everyone around me seemed so focused on, however, was one that had completely evaded my sight: the problem of social isolation. The mere thought of having to remain locked up indoors, completely isolated from the rest of society until further notice, was sufficient to send shivers down people’s spines. I, however, wondered if this particular problem was really going to be as difficult to deal with as some people made it out to be.

I was, after all, an introvert. I didn’t have the need to go out and attend parties every weekend to have a good time and relax like so many others seemed to. I felt no urge to meet a hundred new people every day and befriend each one of them; I was content spending time with the handful of friends I had. In fact, periods of extended socializing in large groups and energized atmospheres left me emotionally exhausted. I actively needed some alone time to recharge, in stark contrast to extroverts who would require interaction and company for similar reasons. All those years of practice lying curled up in bed under a warm blanket with a good book in my hands and a silenced phone by my side would come to use at last. With everyone stuck indoors, I would no longer have to scramble for excuses to justify my mental fatigue after a long day when trying to politely decline an invitation to hang out. Much like Cueball in the xkcd comic, I told myself that this was what I had been preparing for all my life. I was finally king.

Time went by. Over the next few weeks, I spent day after day repeating the same banal tasks over and over again: attending classes, working on problem sets, writing essays, consuming meals, and going to bed. Slowly, but surely, I began to realize that this new world which I had built up in my head as the ideal abode for an introvert like me was proving to be nothing like the one I had fantasized. All of a sudden, I was obliged to answer spontaneous and seemingly endless video calls for no particular reason other than casual conversation, where previously I would only ever attend online meetings if they were scheduled well in advance, had a fixed time frame, and were for a very specific purpose, giving me time to prepare mentally. I no longer even had a personal zone dedicated solely to the act of retiring when tired: my room, which had previously served in this capacity, was now an all-purpose location which harbored study, work, conversation, sleep, retreat, and every single other activity.

Today, I feel drained. Indeed, I feel the very opposite of how I expected to feel at the outset. I need to recharge; I want to be alone, I scream exasperatedly in my head, before looking around and realizing that I already am. Today, I feel trapped. What, to me, was previously freedom is now a claustrophobic padlocked enclosure. There seems to be no escape, no light at the end of the tunnel. Today, I feel lonely. Not just alone, like I would oftentimes want to be, but lonely.

The last few weeks have made me realize that introversion is not necessarily about being bottled up in a room, away from the rest of mankind. Looking back, even when on campus, “being alone” sometimes meant taking a long walk by the river on my own or with a friend. Occasionally, without even my consciously realizing it, momentary interactions and conversations, or even merely the exchange of a fleeting glance, a smile, and a nod with another introverted acquaintance walking in the opposite direction, would fuel my recharge. I now appreciate that introverts, like everybody else, feel lonely from time to time. I am realizing that this is not what I had wanted at all.

As I reflect on what has transpired over the past several weeks and imagine the possibilities for the future, I ask myself a simple question: what has changed? Am I any less of an introvert now with these newfound realizations than before the quarantine began? Absolutely not. On the contrary, this introspection may have taught me a thing or two about myself and about my own personality traits, helping me realize that introversion itself is not a one-dimensional characteristic and has various intricacies to it. If there is anything, anything at all, that I can claim to be a silver lining in these otherwise dark and gloomy clouds floating aimlessly in the skies of anxiety, grief, and sorrow, it is that I’m beginning to understand myself a little better and accept myself for who I am—a very proud introvert.