We started talking about introverts and extroverts. The lecture was on the risk factors for developing depression. The lecturer described introverts as quiet, lonely and very reserved personalities. In her words, introverts had trouble connecting socially. And this apparently led them to develop depressive disorders. In comparison, her description of extroverts included the words sociable, bubbly and adventurous. To me this seemed to be a little sour. Somewhat offensive, even. It hurt that people were just nodding blindly, taking these notes. Row upon row of silver Macbook computers tap tapping away.
I consider myself an introvert. First of all, the label shouldn’t come with these preconceived notions of social ineptitude. I’m a functioning human being and I do know how to be sociable. It doesn’t make me defective, or at risk, if I tend to gravitate towards pockets of silence at parties. Sometimes we do want to hear what we are saying to other people. I am proud of being an introvert. It’s about how we recharge our batteries. I like spending Sundays cooking breakfast, listening to music and watching movies with friends. I absolutely love to dance, but apparently that doesn’t fit neatly into the columns. We are like paintings. We are people made of so many colours and we should never listen to someone who tells us how we have to be. We shouldn’t listen to people who say that we are wrong, because of who we are. We need to surround ourselves with people who we respect and who are kind and will grow with us.
wOW nothing like a healthy shot of anxiety to brighten up my day
obsessing about something that literally happened a year ago because someone remembers my actions differently than I do when I thought I was distinctly “in control”l want to disappear into the floor
On the last day, when Aslan drew her and Peter aside, she did not cry. Her throat closed up and her heart clanged so loudly in her ears that she missed half of what he said.
Too old to return to Narnia?
You shoved me back into this wretched unformed child’s body, lion-god, and made me a thousand years a widow, and now I am too old?
If Susan had been standing next to the White Witch, before the Stone Table, looking down at Aslan bound and muzzled, she would have asked to wield the knife.
Peter was keeping his chin up and saying all the right things. Susan sank her teeth into her lower lip and thought that she would have given everything she had not to come back to Narnia this time.
Aslan looked at her as he spoke. He knew what she was thinking, of course. He always did.
Susan didn’t care. If he was going to go around refusing to be a tame lion, he could hardly fault her for refusing to be a tame woman.
Lucy was coming up, with Edmund beside her. She gritted her teeth, and swallowed her rage. It would not do Lucy a great deal of good to see her god gut her sister with one of his gigantic paws. And she’d be damned if she cried in front of him. She had cried for him once already, cried and worked her fingers bloody prying a muzzle from his dead jaws, and this was how that vigil was repaid.
She would be glad to never see Narnia again. The languid erasing of her memories could not come quickly enough. There was nothing left for her here.