I recently read a wonderful piece called "Caring for Your Introvert," in which Jonathan Rauch provides clarity and insight into the world of introverts, only 25 percent of people, and sorely misunderstood by the rest of the population, the extraverts, who, according to Rauch "cannot imagine why someone would need to be alone."
The only thing a true introvert dislikes more than talking about himself is repeating himself. While extraverts are energized by people, introverts find other people tiring. I hate small talk. I get bored at parties. When I'm around people for more than an hour, sometimes less, I get irritated, even angry, and feel a strong desire to crawl into a deep, quiet hole in the ground and curl up into the shape of a tiny ball. I need hours alone each day to be with my thoughts and to recuperate from social interaction. For this, Rauch provides a formula..."roughly two hours alone for every hour of socializing." Sounds good to me.
Rauch believes introverts are oppressed, and I would say he's right. Perhaps this is because we are a minority, and extraverts are generally seen as the norm in any social setting and in public life, such as politics. Rauch explains, "being outgoing is considered normal and therefore desirable, a mark of confidence, happiness, leadership. Extroverts are seen as bighearted, vibrant, warm, empathic. 'People person' is a compliment. Introverts are described with words like 'guarded,' 'loner,' 'reserved'..." and other titles that suggest we are unsociable or have poor social skills.
I used to believe there was something wrong with me because I didn't want to go to parties, and I preferred staying home on a Friday night. In a group of people, who were all lively and chatty, I felt like I didn't belong. I can't remember how many times I was asked "are you okay," when I was only keeping to myself; or sarcastically told, "Cassie, be quiet, you're being too loud!" I wished I could be more like them, funny, sociable. I was completely insecure about my personality, and I didn't like people drawing attention to my differences.
Even with my prior knowledge of the characteristics of an introvert through my research on HSPs, this piece helped me understand myself a whole lot more, and took me another step further on my path to believing I'm okay the way I am. Rauch believes, "if we introverts ran the world, it would no doubt be a calmer, saner, more peaceful sort of place." I happen to agree.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Thank Goodness For Soy Lattes
Our culture is awakening, however slowly, to the 'special needs,' as my family refers to mine, of sensitive stomachs. A half hour drive from my house is a large farm market called Soergel's. They have an entire building of dairy and gluten-free foods with everything from pizza, pasta and bread to waffles and soy ice cream.
It isn't cheap, but thankfully my mother, who is more excited by our trips to the market than I am, buys me whatever my once bloated, now trim tummy desires. "How about this...or maybe some of these?" She asks, eagerly buzzing around the store. They are brands I've never heard of, but most of the food is purely decadent in its lack of ravenous wheat, rye, barley and lactose. I can even find a few shelves full of gluten-free foods at most Wal-marts, and some Giant Eagle's.
With my estrangement from dairy being recent, I'm not yet entirely familiar with the do's and don'ts, and what my alternative options are. One thing I had loved, and given up, was green tea lattes from Starbucks. As I mourned the loss of my beloved drink while my mother and sister suggested a trip to the coffee chain the other day, two words appeared in the black space behind my forehead like chalk on a blackboard: soy latte. "Hey, Starbucks has soy lattes," I said matter of factly, my lips parting and spreading wide. "Oh my goodness! How did we not think of that?" My mother shrieked.
As I sipped my soy green tea latte, its taste similar to that of a waffle cone, the sweet combination of vanilla and green tea lathered my taste buds and lapped the insides of my cheeks. I was instantly and viscously thankful for everything edible, lovely to taste, and yet gentle enough for me to consume.
Sip after glorious sip, I waited for my insides to churn, tumble and grumble, but they remained calm and undisrupted, like the difference between a lake on a clear day and a sea caught in the grip of a storm.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Complexity of the Creative Personality
One of my favorite topics from talentdevelop.com, and the article I read recently, is The Complexity of the Creative Personality, by Douglas Eby. I constantly feel so complex--in one moment, I can be both happy and sad, highly optimistic and extremely worried, craving company, but also isolation.
The article begins with a quote from a creativity researcher, who says creative people are so complex, "instead of being an individual, they are a multitude." He describes personality characteristics of creative individuals as:
-Humble and proud, both painfully self-doubting and wildly self-confident.
-Both extraverted and introverted, needing people and solitude equally.
-Smart and naive at the same time. A mix of wisdom and childishness. Emotional immaturity along with the deepest insights.
-Convergent and divergent thinking.
-A great deal of physical energy alternating with a great need for quiet and rest.
-May defy gender stereotypes.
Hearing famous actors talk about being shy has always fascinated me. I think, how can you be a celebrity, how can you be in front of a camera for your job, and be shy. But, it makes sense. After all, these are highly sensitive, highly creative people, so they are bound to be introverted, shy, complex.
In an interview, Sigourney Weaver commented, "Sometimes because I am very shy, when I meet a director, and they are shy too, we just sort of sit there."
Similarly, Evan Rachel Wood admits, "I used to not even be able to order pizza on the phone because I was just so shy."
Nicole Kidman has said, "It was very natural for me to want to disappear into dark theater, I am really very shy."
I've always wanted to try acting, but told myself I could never do it because I'm too shy. Maybe I'll give it a try.
The article begins with a quote from a creativity researcher, who says creative people are so complex, "instead of being an individual, they are a multitude." He describes personality characteristics of creative individuals as:
-Humble and proud, both painfully self-doubting and wildly self-confident.
-Both extraverted and introverted, needing people and solitude equally.
-Smart and naive at the same time. A mix of wisdom and childishness. Emotional immaturity along with the deepest insights.
-Convergent and divergent thinking.
-A great deal of physical energy alternating with a great need for quiet and rest.
-May defy gender stereotypes.
Hearing famous actors talk about being shy has always fascinated me. I think, how can you be a celebrity, how can you be in front of a camera for your job, and be shy. But, it makes sense. After all, these are highly sensitive, highly creative people, so they are bound to be introverted, shy, complex.
In an interview, Sigourney Weaver commented, "Sometimes because I am very shy, when I meet a director, and they are shy too, we just sort of sit there."
Similarly, Evan Rachel Wood admits, "I used to not even be able to order pizza on the phone because I was just so shy."
Nicole Kidman has said, "It was very natural for me to want to disappear into dark theater, I am really very shy."
I've always wanted to try acting, but told myself I could never do it because I'm too shy. Maybe I'll give it a try.
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Talent Develop
Talent Development Resources is a crazy cool series of related websites created by Douglas Eby, who's motive was to help people like himself, the gifteds, artists, highly sensitives of the world, who simply don't fit in with mainstream society, better understand themselves.
Series of the site include, Personal Growth Information; Anxiety Relief Solutions; High Ability; Highly Sensitive; The Inner Actor; The Inner Writer, and others. One really cool aspect of TDR is that many of its articles include interviews with famous artists, on what makes them unique, how they deal with their high sensitivity, and the information they disclose about themselves is so relatable to many highly sensitives.
What makes them different is what regular Highly Sensitive People in our culture still are not talking about, either they are ashamed, or they think no one else knows how they feel. That's why TDR is so important to the personal growth of artists and highly sensitives. For me, it's such a comfort, and I go on and read articles when I'm feeling so alone in my sensitive nature... too creative, too dark, too intense, and like everyone who looks at me thinks, "What a weirdo."
It gives advise, too, for all kinds of artists, so if you're an artist looking to develop your creativity, check out this site... talentdevelop.com
Series of the site include, Personal Growth Information; Anxiety Relief Solutions; High Ability; Highly Sensitive; The Inner Actor; The Inner Writer, and others. One really cool aspect of TDR is that many of its articles include interviews with famous artists, on what makes them unique, how they deal with their high sensitivity, and the information they disclose about themselves is so relatable to many highly sensitives.
What makes them different is what regular Highly Sensitive People in our culture still are not talking about, either they are ashamed, or they think no one else knows how they feel. That's why TDR is so important to the personal growth of artists and highly sensitives. For me, it's such a comfort, and I go on and read articles when I'm feeling so alone in my sensitive nature... too creative, too dark, too intense, and like everyone who looks at me thinks, "What a weirdo."
It gives advise, too, for all kinds of artists, so if you're an artist looking to develop your creativity, check out this site... talentdevelop.com
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Here's to Pearl S. Buck...
"The truly creative mind in any field is no more than this: A human creature born abnormally, inhumanely sensitive. To them... a touch is a blow, a sound is a noise, a misfortune is a tragedy, a joy is an ecstasy, a friend is a lover, a lover is a god, and failure is death. Add to this cruelly delicate organism the overpowering necessity to create, create, create -- so that without the creating of music or poetry or books or buildings or something of meaning, their very breath is cut off...They must create, must pour out creation. By some strange, unknown, inward urgency they are not really alive unless they are creating."
— Pearl S. Buck
I haven't been sleeping well. I lay down and my heart sprints, my mind is like a game of ping pong. I know what the problem is, how to solve it, but I'm too tired and so much work has yet to be done. By work, I mean the stuff I make sure gets done first... papers, the reading of books, the memorizing of facts, the seemingly meaningless stuff that will one day result in a diploma.
But my real work, the kind that makes me alive, waits in the corner of my common room, leaning against the couch in a reusable shopping bag... two canvases, one blank and one a half completed picture of a baby's head resting on her mother's chest, and a shoebox full of paint and brushes.
It's Saturday night, and everything else can wait. Right now, I need to create, to let the wild bird out of its cage and set it free, or I know I will not sleep tonight, and tomorrow I will be in no shape to interact with regular humans. So I pull my unfinished piece from the bag, exposing it to light. I am not happy with the color of the mother's face, it is too dark an orange, she looks like she could work for Willy Wonka.
But I have not touched the baby's face, which in the original picture is lighter than her mother's, a very soft pink, like an exotic flower, a shade only a newborn could achieve. I mix red with yellow, and add a drop to the white puddle next to it on the palette. Light peach. Better, but it needs something else. I add a spec of red and swirl it together with the peach, leaving streaks of red. I like the design. Next, my favorite part, the smooth, hypnotic, meditative motion of brush on canvas; the color coming to life, exploding, making my retinas smile. It's still a bit dark, so I add a drop of white, than a little more. Perfect. Onto the canvas it goes, my heart slows, my mind clears, like morning after a night of wind and hard rain, and after weeks of imitated living, I am finally alive.
Highly Sensitive People are born with an exceptional gift... the gift of creativity, having the ability to make and appreciate beautiful works of art. I love to draw, paint, write, take pictures, anything, as long as I'm creating something that wasn't there before. Drawing, though, was my first love, my initial attempt at creating, the first path I took that led me to the gates of my soul.
— Pearl S. Buck
I haven't been sleeping well. I lay down and my heart sprints, my mind is like a game of ping pong. I know what the problem is, how to solve it, but I'm too tired and so much work has yet to be done. By work, I mean the stuff I make sure gets done first... papers, the reading of books, the memorizing of facts, the seemingly meaningless stuff that will one day result in a diploma.
But my real work, the kind that makes me alive, waits in the corner of my common room, leaning against the couch in a reusable shopping bag... two canvases, one blank and one a half completed picture of a baby's head resting on her mother's chest, and a shoebox full of paint and brushes.
It's Saturday night, and everything else can wait. Right now, I need to create, to let the wild bird out of its cage and set it free, or I know I will not sleep tonight, and tomorrow I will be in no shape to interact with regular humans. So I pull my unfinished piece from the bag, exposing it to light. I am not happy with the color of the mother's face, it is too dark an orange, she looks like she could work for Willy Wonka.
But I have not touched the baby's face, which in the original picture is lighter than her mother's, a very soft pink, like an exotic flower, a shade only a newborn could achieve. I mix red with yellow, and add a drop to the white puddle next to it on the palette. Light peach. Better, but it needs something else. I add a spec of red and swirl it together with the peach, leaving streaks of red. I like the design. Next, my favorite part, the smooth, hypnotic, meditative motion of brush on canvas; the color coming to life, exploding, making my retinas smile. It's still a bit dark, so I add a drop of white, than a little more. Perfect. Onto the canvas it goes, my heart slows, my mind clears, like morning after a night of wind and hard rain, and after weeks of imitated living, I am finally alive.
Highly Sensitive People are born with an exceptional gift... the gift of creativity, having the ability to make and appreciate beautiful works of art. I love to draw, paint, write, take pictures, anything, as long as I'm creating something that wasn't there before. Drawing, though, was my first love, my initial attempt at creating, the first path I took that led me to the gates of my soul.
Sunday, February 27, 2011
The Cafeteria Blues
The cafeteria is my least favorite place on campus. There are just too many people who move around too much and make too much noise, and I get overstimulated, tired and agitated, very quickly. Adding to my stress, the cafe makes it hard for me to stick to my strict gluten-free, and now dairy-free, diet because of all the temptations and variety, most of which is toxic to me. Furthermore, causing some anxiety is the possibility of eating something with hidden ingredients that may make me ill.
But, I try to make the best of it. My friend and I go either as soon as it opens or just before it closes, when most students haven't gotten there yet, or after they've already left. Each time, I bypass the pizza and pasta station without paying it much attention and proceed to scan the traditions' selection. If I don't see plain rice or potatoes, I keep moving, towards the vegetarian station, which, thankfully, offers rice for many meals, but it is usually fried or has some kind of funky seasoning that may or may not make me bloated, alter my mood for the next couple of hours, or give me acne, so I'm always fearful. But I must still be in the rebellious stage of my new diet, because sometimes I eat it anyway and spend half the day worrying about what was in it.
If I really want to be careful, I head over to old reliable, the salad bar, the boring yet comfortable friend who is always there when I need her. I pile the lettuce and spinach onto my plate, and top it with various colorful additions, sometimes cucumber and tomato, carrots, chick peas, kidney beans and hard boiled eggs. As I walk by, I stare longingly at the dressings, and give my old friend cottage cheese a look that says, "I miss you, but we both know I can't have you," and reluctantly I walk back to my table, dodging bodies swarming towards me from each and every direction.
But, I try to make the best of it. My friend and I go either as soon as it opens or just before it closes, when most students haven't gotten there yet, or after they've already left. Each time, I bypass the pizza and pasta station without paying it much attention and proceed to scan the traditions' selection. If I don't see plain rice or potatoes, I keep moving, towards the vegetarian station, which, thankfully, offers rice for many meals, but it is usually fried or has some kind of funky seasoning that may or may not make me bloated, alter my mood for the next couple of hours, or give me acne, so I'm always fearful. But I must still be in the rebellious stage of my new diet, because sometimes I eat it anyway and spend half the day worrying about what was in it.
If I really want to be careful, I head over to old reliable, the salad bar, the boring yet comfortable friend who is always there when I need her. I pile the lettuce and spinach onto my plate, and top it with various colorful additions, sometimes cucumber and tomato, carrots, chick peas, kidney beans and hard boiled eggs. As I walk by, I stare longingly at the dressings, and give my old friend cottage cheese a look that says, "I miss you, but we both know I can't have you," and reluctantly I walk back to my table, dodging bodies swarming towards me from each and every direction.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
HSP Group continued
Waynesburg University's Highly Sensitive Person Group met for the second time this past Wednesday, and went extremely well. We had a new member, who read one of the flyers I posted around campus and said to herself, "this fits me to a T."
She came in the room smiling, exclaiming, "oh my goodness, I can't believe there's a group for this! I didn't even know there was a name for it." She asked who started the group and where I heard about HSPs, and I told her I'd come across Elaine Aron's book, "The Highly Sensitive Person: How to Thrive When the World Overwhelms You," which gave me the same kind of revelation she was experiencing.
She began to cry, saying, "I can't believe there's a book!" As our group leader went to fetch her a box of Kleenex, I handed her a self test listing the main HSP trait identifiers, which produced more tears as she admitted, "I can relate to all of these! This is me!
Then, she told us a bit about her childhood, and how, "I grew up with four brothers and being in the house with my family was so overwhelming, I'd have to retreat to my room alone and just cry. Everyone thought I was so pathetic. I'd think, 'why am I so different?'"
I looked at her as I'd watch a child learn to ride a two-wheeler for the first time. I was proud I'd helped her understand herself a little better and realize why she's different, and that she's okay the way she is.
Later on, she added, "I love nature, and that people destroy our environment hurts me so much."
"I know what you mean," I reassured her, "I'm a member of Eco-Stewards Club.
I could relate better to her, who seemed to be the most sensitive of the group, more than the other members. I left the meeting intensely fulfilled, like I'd nursed a baby bird with a broken wing back to health and set him free to fly just as high and far as the rest of his species.
She came in the room smiling, exclaiming, "oh my goodness, I can't believe there's a group for this! I didn't even know there was a name for it." She asked who started the group and where I heard about HSPs, and I told her I'd come across Elaine Aron's book, "The Highly Sensitive Person: How to Thrive When the World Overwhelms You," which gave me the same kind of revelation she was experiencing.
She began to cry, saying, "I can't believe there's a book!" As our group leader went to fetch her a box of Kleenex, I handed her a self test listing the main HSP trait identifiers, which produced more tears as she admitted, "I can relate to all of these! This is me!
Then, she told us a bit about her childhood, and how, "I grew up with four brothers and being in the house with my family was so overwhelming, I'd have to retreat to my room alone and just cry. Everyone thought I was so pathetic. I'd think, 'why am I so different?'"
I looked at her as I'd watch a child learn to ride a two-wheeler for the first time. I was proud I'd helped her understand herself a little better and realize why she's different, and that she's okay the way she is.
Later on, she added, "I love nature, and that people destroy our environment hurts me so much."
"I know what you mean," I reassured her, "I'm a member of Eco-Stewards Club.
I could relate better to her, who seemed to be the most sensitive of the group, more than the other members. I left the meeting intensely fulfilled, like I'd nursed a baby bird with a broken wing back to health and set him free to fly just as high and far as the rest of his species.
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