I'm an Extrovert

Talk about a moment of self discovery or at least submission to who I am. For the first 32 years of my life, I hid in a darkness that was all about repression and maintaining a lie. A past that left me with a severe case of PTSD. PTSD allowed me to live the life of an introvert. Falsely, so my anxieties weren't triggered by strangers and uncomfortable situations.

But...and it is a big BUT...the truth is that I love people. I love talking with people. I love sharing and listening. I love understanding how people work and embracing differences. I love communication and debate. I love simple and complex. I'm Monica and I'm a social butterfly.

Now, if you walked by me in a store or sat behind me at church, you'd probably guess me to be an introvert. You'd find even in small groups, I'm quiet until comfortable. You might even think I'm standoffish.

Honestly, that's what PTSD does to an extrovert. It leaves a propensity to be fearful around strangers or in groups of people. No worries, there's an extrovert hiding and waiting for the waves of anxiety to pass so there can be true freedom in embracing who I am.

Why? Why have I been thinking through this so much lately?

A couple weeks ago, I believed I was entering into a depression. Things weren't so bad, so why depression? My depression is almost always situational. It's usually related to an event or memory or anniversary. Therefore, my depression is cyclical. Sometimes worse than others, but I can mark it on a calendar.

February and March tend to be some of my better months. So, the depression was unexpected. I suspected it wasn't true depression. I was moody and angry. I'd snap at the smallest things. My life wasn't so terrible, so why?

I'm not the kind of person who is content to just go through a tough time and not understand. I want to know. I want to understand myself. I want to be self aware. I want to be proactive and make adjustments if needed.

Here's where I landed.

It's been two years since we moved. I'm unhappier now than when we moved. That's a measurable consideration.

When we were told we would be moving, I believe we were about the happiest and most content we had ever been in our married lives. I'm not saying life was easy or that we were without struggles. We were still trying to manage some major changes with family and church.

But, we had something special. We had a marriage that was strong. After a rough go, we had a new church family. We were truly happy for that short time in our new church home. Remember, we joined one Sunday and found out we had to move a week later. It was short. We enjoyed our Sunday school class, Wednesday night study and our Sunday mornings. We were developing relationships. We were amazed by that given we had been visiting only about five months. I had a women's bible study group where I fit and was loved.

We had friends outside church. There were couples and families we spent time with and holidays. We learned a balance between new and old relationships, especially since it was old and new church friends. I had a tremendous support system. I can't even describe what I had. I had someone I could count on at all times. People who knew me, knew what made me different and accepted me.

I had an adoptive family. I had a senior couple who were and are like family to me. Distance is hard, but there's always open arms when we visit. We had a good balance in our relationship with some family members. Good balance really means, we had a system that worked for us and caused the least amount of pain and anguish.

We didn't have money. We didn't a lot of possessions. But, we were happy. Our happiness was grounded in the things that mattered the most. Faith and family. Family being a broad term.

When I consider how much of that we have here, there's very little. As we discussed last week, we feel like we packed up and moved to the desert.

That happiness was replaced for a time with the excitement of the new. Now, there's an anger that's left. I have to believe I'm somewhat normal.

Understanding who I am has been a part of this struggle. Being an extrovert in a desert is a tough place.

As I was listening to Danny Gokey's "Tell Your Heart to Beat Again," I found exactly where I'm at. I don't live there any more. I don't know what that looks like. I don't know exactly how to make it happen. I don't know how to let the doors close on what we left. I don't know how to let my heart to beat again. I don't how to be happy in the desert. I want to. I want to be happy again. I'm ready though. I'm ready for my heart to beat again.