Do I, the socially awkward
extrovert, have an aversion
to extroversion? I have the
answer to everything, but
how often is it the correct
answer? Who’s to know?
Isn’t that a terrific problem
(terrific as in terrible and
horrific)? I think the majority
of the folks with whom I’ve
had relationships have solidly
been introverts. And while
it can sometimes be annoying,
I do well with gregarious, ex
troverted friendships, not that
I haven’t had my fair share of
pals that aren’t people people.
I’ve often grappled with the
fact that I’m a true-to-type
Gemini who’s pretty high on
the people person scale and
yet can be incredibly socially
awkward. Grappled how?
Mostly, if I’m honest, I’ve
simply joked about this see
ming paradox, which I do
believe is quite integral to
who I am. I n other words,
a large percentage of my
life comes from the knots
that these facts get me tied
into on a regular basis. Which
brings me to the double gut-
punch that, at least within me,
are both my anthema and
my yin and yang: anxiety.
Which is no joking matter
(Take my Xanax, please!) –
(I’m kidding, I have none, as
local medical professionals,
and presumably many not-
so-local, called that off for
folks without real insurance
when the opioid fiasco led
soon thereafter to a national
fentanyl crisis.) (Which I get,
in theory, but at the same
time find it utterly elitist,
another devastating symptom
of the widening gap between
the classes here in our devolving
country.) There, I’ve said my
piece, as it turns out. Not my
original intent here, and that
the nitty-gritty is kept within
the confines of parentheses
is metaphorically appropriate.
Except for the fact that I make
a point that whenever I have
any sort of medical or mental
consultation, I always, and as
level-headed as I can force
I’ve often grappled with the
fact that I’m a true-to-type
Gemini who’s pretty high on
the people person scale and
yet can be incredibly socially
awkward. Grappled how?
Mostly, if I’m honest, I’ve
simply joked about this see
ming paradox, which I do
believe is quite integral to
who I am. I n other words,
a large percentage of my
life comes from the knots
that these facts get me tied
into on a regular basis. Which
brings me to the double gut-
punch that, at least within me,
are both my anthema and
my yin and yang: anxiety.
Which is no joking matter
(Take my Xanax, please!) –
(I’m kidding, I have none, as
local medical professionals,
and presumably many not-
so-local, called that off for
folks without real insurance
when the opioid fiasco led
soon thereafter to a national
fentanyl crisis.) (Which I get,
in theory, but at the same
time find it utterly elitist,
another devastating symptom
of the widening gap between
the classes here in our devolving
country.) There, I’ve said my
piece, as it turns out. Not my
original intent here, and that
the nitty-gritty is kept within
the confines of parentheses
is metaphorically appropriate.
Except for the fact that I make
a point that whenever I have
any sort of medical or mental
consultation, I always, and as
level-headed as I can force
myself to muster, bring up
this fact, that I think of this
as a hideous inequity, given
that Xanax so profoundly
helped me be the person
I had with no conviction
whatsoever, believe myself
to be. Which no doubt does
the opposite of making a
difference, when it comes
to me ever getting such a
panacea ever again. So,
do I make any difference
in the grand scheme when
it comes to equality or in
reducing the curel gap
that exists between the
haves and us have nots.
