Image may be NSFW.
Clik here to view.Until I got sober, I classified myself as an extrovert. I was the guy who struck up conversations with random strangers; I was always first to raise my hand, volunteering to lead projects or give presentations. I was constantly putting myself “out there.” Truth be told, it was draining to constantly be “On,” but I figured that was just the price you paid for being outgoing. I don’t know how many times I’ve taken the Myers-Briggs personality test over the years, and without fail I’ve received the same result: You’re an extrovert. By the way, sitting in a quiet room with dozens of your co-workers, filling in little bubbles with a number two pencil and answering questions about your personality is a special kind of torture.
My personality type, according to the Myers-Briggs test, has always been an “ENTJ.” This means I’m an “Extraverted Intuitive Thinking Judging” person. If you believe this post, it also means “this may be expressed with the charm and finesse of a world leader or with the insensitivity of a cult leader” (thanks for the vote of confidence, random web page). Supposedly, I thrive in busy environments, feed off other people’s energy, am impatient, enjoy leadership roles and quickly verbalize opinions. I’ve even tried to answer questions a little differently on the test, but it still comes back as ENTJ.
A year ago, I had to take the Myers-Briggs test. The questions were as identical as they were inane: Do you often contemplate the complexity of life? Do you frequently and easily express your feelings and emotions? Are you more attracted to sensible people or imaginative people? This time, I didn’t know how to answer. I couldn’t just barrel through the test like I had done before. Hell, I almost ran out of time—and this was a test about myself. When I got the results back, I wasn’t an extrovert anymore. Six months later, I had to take the test again (Yay, Corporate America!) and the same result came back: You’re an introvert. How the hell did this happen? I took it as an insult. Then, I started getting angry at the test itself. I turned to my co-worker and shook my head, “Man, I don’t know about you, but I think this thing was way off.” And then it dawned on me: the test wasn’t wrong at all—I’d always been an introvert.
The more I thought about it, the more I framed every social interaction I’d ever had through the lens of alcohol. Thanks to booze, I’d been freer, looser, lighter in virtually every setting. Everything from family get-togethers, workplace happy hours, Facebook conversations, text messages and birthday gatherings. I hurtled forward on my own sad velocity as a drunk—loudly volunteering and committing to things I shouldn’t, simply because I couldn’t help myself. Sober, I felt wounded, cautious, gun-shy. I didn’t want to say anything to get myself in trouble. In my drinking, most of what I’d said was bullshit. That part of me had evaporated. I no longer felt the need to assert myself, brag or show off. I just wanted to be left alone.
Where I really notice that I’m an introvert is in the AA rooms. There’s no space in the margins for dishonesty there. Back in the heyday of my alcoholism, I made sure I was the life of the party. In a church basement on a Wednesday night, no one wants to see that. In my home group, I can always count on a few dozen people sitting around in a large circle—roughly the same constellation of fellow alcoholics week after week. After a topic is suggested, we go around and, one by one, everyone chimes in with their own experience, strength or hope. I can’t explain the level of stress, anxiety and, very often, abject terror that comes with this. I’ll sit there and listen to heartfelt, thoughtful responses from people until, without warning, I realize it’s soon going to become my turn to speak. I suddenly calculate how long it’s going to be before all eyes are on me. It’s like a heat-seeking missile, finding its way toward my seat. My palms get sweaty like I’m at a job interview and I shift in my chair. The closer it gets to me, the faster my heart starts beating. My brain goes all briar-patch me, thorny with things I could and should say.
This isn’t how an extrovert reacts.
Getting sober didn’t change who I am—it simply brought me back to my sea level. Being extroverted is as exhausting as it dishonest to myself. It’s a treadmill I never really wanted to be on. That was one of the great liberations of being sober: I could suddenly let someone else do the social jogging for once. I don’t need to fill awkward silences and empty pauses. I could recede into the background and take the focus off me. AA meetings have gifted me the thing alcohol always promised but never delivered: they make me comfortable in my own skin.
I no longer have to lie as a reflex. When I was drinking, I’d find myself lying about what I ate for breakfast because the lie simply came faster. So when it’s my turn to talk in an AA room, I tell the truth. I don’t think about it. I don’t have to make my story more interesting than it is—especially if it’s insanely boring. I’m okay being a dial tone. Sobriety—and especially the rooms—have taught me how to be comfortable with myself. When it’s my turn to share, I don’t feel compelled to exaggerate like I would have in my drinking days. The truth just sounds different coming out of my mouth. Maybe that’s because, now, channeling my inner introvert, I actually think before I speak.
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