Silence, they say, is golden, but it isn't always so. For me, it has become a hindrance, a misunderstood feature that people often mistake for arrogance and pride.
Others, mistake my silence as an act of cowardice, not understanding that being an introvert is a personality trait, not a flaw. We introverts don't always have the right words to say or know what to say.
In truth, my silence stems from not knowing what to say; it's a struggle to find the right words, leading me to keep quiet and listen.
I also struggle with anger issues. When I attempt to explain myself and sense that others don't comprehend, I grow frustrated. To prevent outbursts, I retreat into silence—it becomes a defense mechanism, shielding me from shouting or yelling.
During my high school days, socializing was challenging. I didn't associate much with my classmates, not out of enmity, but due to my struggle with initiating conversations. I always make sure to greet everyone and answer basic questions, yet I couldn't engage further in deeper conversations. I had two close friends, and if I wasn't with them, I'll always be found on the staircase if a teacher wasn't around. That spot felt safe.
My parents raised us in a way that limited our interactions outside the home. While this shielded us from negative influences, it also affected my social skills. I became accustomed to my own space, making it hard to make friends. My classmates perceived my distance as pride, unaware of my internal battles.
When I started learning a skill, this struggle persisted. Everywhere I went, I heard whispers. "She's so full of herself." "She's too proud." "She can't socialize with her peers." "Who does she think she is?" "She's a snob." These words, especially from people my age, haunted me.
Even at home, expressing myself posed a challenge. My mom found my silence frustrating, prompting her to repeatedly ask before I'd share my thoughts. I yearned to connect with people but didn't know how. The idea of visiting someone alone felt like a war—I just don't know what to say.
The misconception of my silence being prideful severely impacted my social life. Instead of hanging out, I rather stay home to avoid uncomfortable questions. I admired those who could express themselves effortlessly, wondering how they managed to do it.
Explaining myself is exhausting. It felt futile, as if no one truly comprehended my struggle. I wish people could see that my silence isn't arrogance or cowardice—it's my way of coping.