As an introvert, socializing is the most demanding part of the holiday season. I love the idea of getting together with family—even my in-laws—but the execution can be daunting. I rely almost entirely on rehearsed conversation. Everything I might say is pre-approved and practiced in advance. I preload a mental playlist of safe topics so I’m ready for the inevitable silences. I don’t trust myself to be successfully spontaneous. My opinions are usually wrong, or at least not worth defending. Instead, I watch and nod, smile and laugh. I wear a mask everyone is comfortable with.
Inside, the Critic takes over, second-guessing my posture, my answers, or anything at all. It is mentally exhausting, and often I need to step outside—as if to smoke—just to be alone and let the cold air reset my thoughts.
When you only see some people once a year, it’s natural to compare résumés after the initial Merry Christmas. “So, what have you been up to?” What should I say? That I took a ten-week course on Skills for Safer Living with six other people, all of whom—like me—have attempted suicide? It’s not a great way to start a conversation. Nor is admitting I’m trying a new anti-anxiety medication that seems to be working. Once I set aside my depression and suicidal ideation, there’s nothing over the past year worth mentioning—at least, that’s what the Critic tells me.
I work as an occasional elementary school teacher and part-time as a produce clerk in a grocery store. I’m full of shame. I’m underemployed, and I don’t like to talk about it. My mental illness has held me back, which is difficult to explain. It sounds like an excuse rather than a reason. Instead, I talk about my son and daughter. They are the best of me. Their lives are at that wonderful moment when everything still feels possible. Learning is such a gift. I remember loving university—arguing over Livy’s use of cunctatus (“to hesitate”), or wrestling with Martial’s bawdy poems and debating the precise meaning of poppysmata—the dropping of the tongue from the roof of the mouth—when it referred to the nether regions of an unlucky prostitute.
Beyond my children, the weather is a reliable subject, especially when it’s extreme—too much snow, bitter cold, relentless sun. Sports can also work. “What about the Leafs?” I follow sports just enough to offer prepared insights and sound informed. I always defer when someone disagrees. Winning isn’t the point. I’m trying to redirect the conversation away from myself, not prove anything. The farther it drifts, the better.
It may sound counterintuitive, but once I have a drink in my hand—usually a beer (who am I kidding, it’s always a beer)—I try to stay within a group. This allows me to watch and listen without fully participating. Others carry the conversation; I let them do the heavy lifting. No one notices that I’m barely contributing. If someone asks me a direct question, I nod and agree.
By the end of the night, I am tired in a way sleep won’t fix. The mask has done its job. No one has been burdened by my silence or confused by my pauses. I have passed, more or less, as someone at ease. That is the success of the performance.
Later, alone, I replay the evening as the Critic resumes its work—what I said, what I didn’t, how I stood, when I smiled. Still, there is a small mercy in having made it through. I showed up. I stayed. I did not disappear.
- excerpt from What to expect when your brain is trying to kill you
