No, it’s not because I write beautiful prose, capturing my audience from the first paragraph. Nor do I write tart poetry that puts readers in touch with their innermost emotions. I wish. Instead, it’s my personal life that resembles that of the stereotypical author: I’ve become a recluse. A hermit. I readily admit that I’m most comfortable in my own company. I wrap my loneliness around myself like a blanket on a cold winter’s day. It’s comforting, it’s mine.

Once upon a time…

Johnny Begood, up to no good

Johnny Begood, up to no good

There was a young man who thought himself to be an extrovert, a man who loved crowded cities and to meet new people. All the time. What the young man failed to realize (or admit to himself?) was the fact that those interactions were costly. Afterward, he’d feel exhausted and he would often slump into a what might best be described as a depression, or at least a “low”. It would take days to get out from under the rocks.

But he loved to slip into characters, to play someone else (safe, right?) and be outgoing, entertaining, the proverbial “life of the party”. Here (to the left) is a photo from one such event about fourteen years ago, happy times in Budapest, before the country descended into near-fascism under the rule of Victor Orbán. Here we have our author playing his evil (heterosexual) punk-rock twin.

I still remember it all, vividly, the things I did in character, things which would probably be considered sexual harassment in these post-#MeToo days, and I guess I’d have been slapped across the face more than once had it not been for the fact that my co-workers knew that it was all an act and that underneath the mask of that crazy punk rocker was an innocent gay boy, happily married. I even joined and sang (sic!) with a band that night, even though I had no idea what they were playing and despite the fact that I had never sung before and without a clue what the lyrics were. But we seemed to be quite the hit with the crowd, probably buoyed by the copious amounts of alcohol flowing all evening.

Her Majesty took the prize

Her Majesty’s groupies. My feigned disinterest was actually fatigue and a splitting headache.

Since then, I’ve only been “out” in character one more time, four years ago, and I will be honest and say that the price was far too high. As successful as the performance was (from a strict marketing point of view), the cost was crushing, mentally and emotionally. From the near-constant sexual assault by the many females in the crowd, and the neverending onslaught of people on my persona, I was barely able to keep a straight face and had it not been for my character, I would’ve fled the scene long before the two-hour mark after which I returned to my room utterly exhausted.

It must’ve been then that I “relabeled” myself, into an ambivert, someone who is a bit of both, extrovert and introvert, stuck in the middle, outgoing at times, but in desperate need to recharge the batteries in between.

From extro- to ambi- to introvert

I must have been fooling myself, like the little gay boy who feels safer coming out as bisexual rather than gay right away, failing to see that he’s thus only hurting those who really are bisexual. But that’s another story. I think it is high time that I admit that I’m a full-fledged introvert. But how did that happen? Has it been these past nine years of working alone from home? The lack of people to socialize with on a daily basis?

Alone. This is how I feel best right now.

Or is it because I’ve just spent ten days in the company of guests? Literally 24×7 with no privacy? I don’t know, but when I left the gym yesterday, after spending the first two hours alone in almost two weeks,

I felt this overwhelming sense of relief, of finally being able to breathe again, and then it struck me that I was about to head into the worst day of my year, as a friend reminded me of having to call me tomorrow. Given how much I hate attention, my mood quickly spiraled downward.

Suddenly, I felt like I was choking. I couldn’t breathe and I was panicking. How would I get out of all this? So today I’ve been offline. My phone’s been disconnected, and I’ve refused to check certain social media, particularly messaging apps. I. just. need. to. be. alone. On the upside, I wrote several thousand words today. That was nice. And I had a great walk into the forest.

Yet…

Obviously, I know I can’t. My husband will be home in an hour. So will my son. They don’t count, quite the contrary. Their daily homecoming is most welcome and I feel that I can be myself in their company. But everyone else better stay away or things could get nasty. I’m like the evil version of Annie Wilkes. I can be very protective of myself…

On the other hand, I still look forward to meeting people, and there is still part of me who longs to be social, to be out there, particularly when I guide guests and show them my town. Not sure what role I slip into, but that has never been a problem. At the end of the day, I can always take off the Hans-suit and be myself again. Strange, but I’m sure Paul Sheldon would be proud of me.

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