Drifting Into the World of Nothingness

People often ask me, "Why don't you say something?" when they see me staring into nothingness in the middle of a conversation. My reaction to this question has evolved over the years. As a child, it made me feel bad, then as I grew older, it turned into anger, and eventually, into varying degrees of embarrassment.

For a child’s mind, the question was devastating, triggering a series of self-doubts: Why don’t I have anything to say? Am I disrespecting my friends by not engaging with them constantly? Will they abandon me because of this trait? At that time, I had no answers.

As I grew, I learned that people aren't just categorized by sex, nationality, or physical features, but also by personality traits—most notably, introverts and extroverts. Extroverts are outgoing, sociable, and energetic, thriving in social interactions. Introverts, on the other hand, are more introspective, finding comfort in their thoughts and small, intimate gatherings. One gets energized by interactions, and the other loses energy with interactions.

But these labels are never that simple. People's personalities vary greatly, and trying to fit everyone into neat little categories only convolutes the idea. So why do these labels exist? Perhaps they offer solace to the boy who once felt troubled by his silence, providing a sense of belonging and acceptance.

Despite this, I never fully embraced these labels as unchangeable truths. I tried to change myself, pushing toward greater setbacks. This stage made me miserable, trying to be someone that I'm not, and I started becoming angry at the same question: "Why do I always have to say something? Didn’t I just talk to you? Why can’t you give me some alone time?" Although these words often stayed unspoken, my frustration must have shown.

Then came acceptance—the realization that change takes time and some aspects of ourselves are beyond change. I lose energy while socializing due to factors beyond my control; it all depends on my brain chemistry. Introverts have a less active dopamine reward system, which means they don't get the same "boost" from social interactions as extroverts do and are sensitive to external stimuli like noise and crowds, which can quickly overwhelm them in social settings—all of these factors deplete the "social battery" faster. But I can't confine myself solely to my internal thoughts and feelings either. It’s a far scarier place, one that has the potential to destroy me completely. So I have to choose the middle ground. I want to have connections and interactions to keep me away from the darker corners of my mind, and I need little breaks to myself to recharge.

Now, when I sit quietly in a group, observing a leaf dancing in the wind or just zoning out into nothingness, people often misunderstand my silence as boredom or detachment. They don’t realize that I love hearing about their lives, their happiness, and their problems. My focus shifts, not because of disinterest, but as a way to recharge my mind. Out of curiosity, they often ask what I am looking at, and most of the time I don't even have an answer. My eyes may be open, but my brain is busy resetting for the next "speed run."

Interestingly, people do have the ability to understand what initially seems foreign to them. I have found friends who, even though they don’t completely understand it, accept my quiet nature, with some even appreciating it. I recently met someone who admired my calm demeanor, wishing they could be like me. That surprised me—here I was, embarrassed about my introversion, while someone else saw it as desirable.

This made me realize that everyone faces their own challenges, even those we don’t understand. I’ve fantasized about being an extrovert and even made attempts to become one. But now I see that being an extrovert isn’t the ideal I once imagined.

This journey of self-acceptance has taught me that embracing who I am, in all my quietness and introspection, is its own form of strength.