Why surviving lockdown as an introvert was hard

Back when it was announced that we had to socially isolate in March 2020, I could barely contain my glee. As an introvert, the words ‘social isolation’ almost felt like a burst of fresh air after being in a stuffy room for too long.

It’s not that I don’t love my friends and family – I do. I just always feel like I’m on a timer in social situations. And once the timer counts down to zero, I need to get away and recharge.

The start of social isolation was a wonderful discovery of the things I’d forgotten I loved to do. I picked up piano lessons again after many years, and started reading again for hours, forgetting the clock. I started meditating and just learning to be kinder to myself.

So by the time when we went back to work in the office in June a few months later, and we were socially booked out weekends in a row, I was excited and ready. I’d missed everyone so much. 

The second time around, when the Delta variant hit in Sydney in late June 2021, it felt completely different. The refreshing nature of lockdown as something novel and relaxing changed.

Now, most mornings I seem to wake up with either a dull throbbing in my head or a buzzing. I feel a constant lethargy; yet a kind of apathy to do anything about it. And a vague sense of low-level dread that another day has come, and is going to repeat. 

Part of the reason is having too much time on my hands to think. I already have an overthinking brain, and have had anxiety and depression in the past.

So the excess of extra time no longer seems exhilarating or promising – it feels dangerous. I now spend stretches of time wondering if I’ll go back to the dark place, and sometimes my treacherous mind even convinces me I already have. 

By the time I can force myself to exercise or meditate, my head feels like a mess. 

Meanwhile, my fiancé Bronson, who is an extrovert, seems to be thriving. For this, I am really happy and grateful (and not just because he often boosts my moods with his pragmatic yet kind outlook and thinking).

I’m starting to learn that my introversion, when taken to the extreme, is not a good thing.

During the day, our days are similar. We wake up, ‘go’ to work in our different makeshift offices in separate rooms. At the end of the day, he’ll watch some TV and work on his art until I finish work, then we have dinner together.

The crucial cause in the shift in our moods seems to happen after dinner.

Bronson will, almost without fail, play video games with either his brothers or a group of friends, talking to them on a gaming headset. I’ll go and lock myself in the bedroom and read until I fall asleep.

I don’t feel happy or content like I used to while reading. I’ll zone in and out of a disturbed sleep, while the sounds of gleeful laughter or good-natured swearing, or casual chats about life, float to me from the living room. Sometimes they put me in a bad mood. It took a while to realise it’s not because I think video games are stupid. It’s because I’m jealous.

I’m jealous of the way Bronson, and other extroverts, so naturally gravitate towards human company. I’m jealous of the way it gives them effortless joy, seems to lift them up. Not because I don’t think I can have that, too. I have wonderful friends who understand my soul, and hopefully, it’s the same for them.

But it is just so hard for me to initiate social contact. I don’t know why, and I’ve always been like this. It makes me a little nervous, and my brain imagines ways it could go wrong. Which is a shame, really, since I’ve realised that if the prospect of social interaction makes me nervous, the absence of it makes me miserable. 

This low level feeling of sadness is a very mild version of what I had when I was 25 and depressed – and had fallen out of touch with every single one of my friends for almost a year.  I felt worthless, like a recluse. Now, it’s not depression that’s ‘stopping me’ from connecting, it’s lockdown, but it feels like the same thing.

Other people are important. They reflect the love and connection and insight that is within us, locked away when it gets too lonely or is silenced. And without friends to talk to, I start talking to myself, in my head.

If I didn’t live with my fiancé, it’s possible I’d feel mildly crazy during this lockdown. Apart from frantically Googling Gladys’s speeches at 11am to find out what percentage of NSW is double vaxxed, and counting down the number of days till lockdown is over, I realise I need to make more effort with my friendships and relationships. 

I still feel mildly socially anxious going back into crowds, but I have to teach myself ways to push through that, because the outcome and reward of social connection – being in the warm glow of like-minded and loving friends – is worth it.