Hibernation and the Introvert
an essay on winter isolation and mental health
I’m sat in a coffee shop downtown that I’ve been coming to once a week. The shop is my little treat each week for talking to a therapist about my problems. It wasn’t too crowded but there were enough people around to feel alive. The promise of rich coffee and a sweet treat isn’t my only reason for coming to the shop every week. It is my way of forcing myself to get up at a decent hour, put on a cute outfit, and be a part of the world for a little while.
The holidays are over and without the festive cheer, the chill outside no longer feels like a winter wonderland; everything is now simply cold, alone, and dead. Evolution did something right when it made bears and other species hibernate. They retreat into their dens in mid-December and don’t come out until March or April when the sun isn’t just a whisper but a firm hello. I wish I could do the same.
It’s not just the post-holiday blues or the 4:30 p.m. sunset or the cold weather. I actually do like winter. I take comfort in wrapping myself in a blanket, feeling the warmth of a steaming mug of tea in my hands, and hearing the stiff silence of a world in retreat as I read a book. The thought of setting a date with my television every night to rewatch another comfort show or catch up on my to-watch list is inviting. I enjoy these activities all year but when winter comes, I take extra delight in them because the freezing temperature gives me the excuse I need to stay inside alone.
My problem is that I enjoy this hibernation too much. I’ve always been an introvert but I’ve also always had social anxiety and despite popular belief, those two things are not the same, nor are they interchangeable. Sometimes I choose to be alone because I enjoy it or I need to recharge. Other times I need to be alone because the thought of being out in the world, being perceived, is too much to handle. Isolation is second nature to me and it only creates a vicious cycle of isolating because I feel sad/anxious, feeling sad/anxious because I’m isolating, and wanting to isolate more but also hating myself for doing it.
One day a friend texted me, “I love you, but your need to isolate yourself is irritating… I think you’ve become sort of a recluse.”
I didn’t disagree with her because I knew it was true. Though I’ve been aware of this for a while, reading it in someone else’s words, particularly someone I love and care about very deeply, solidified it in my head and sent pains to my heart. There was once a time when I left my house with almost no problems. In fact, much of my teen years can be defined by two extremes; not wanting to leave my room and not wanting to be home at all. As a teen I wanted to sleep my life away, thinking that one day I’ll wake up from the chilling winter and reach the better part, the spring morning with dew in the grass and hope in the air. As an adult, I fight the urge to think in the same pattern.
Back in the coffee shop, I went over what I talked about with my therapist as I read Annie Ernaux and wondered if I’m being ostentatious, reading in a coffee shop for everyone to see. I reminded myself this is very normal and no one gives a damn and in fact, if someone came up to me and asked me what I was reading, I’d be delighted to tell them about it. Because despite my waxing and waning desire to be alone, I so badly want to connect with others.
A pretty girl walked past my table. She had such a cute outfit on. I wanted to compliment her outfit and ask her where she got it from. I wanted to connect with her in this small way before I go back home to my covers and thoughts. She passed my table again and I kept my eyes down, saying nothing.
Because I’m a freelance writer and a pet sitter, all of my time is spent at home, be it mine or someone else’s. I’ve been lucky enough that I don’t have to face my fears of being a part of the world every single day. I was able to start working from home after graduating college and then the pandemic hit a few months later, stunting everyone’s social skills and giving me more time to exist within the same four walls of my childhood bedroom.
All of this time I get to spend alone thanks to the nature of my jobs is a blessing and a curse. My enjoyment in isolation can quickly turn sinister as I become plagued with the usual thoughts that swim in my head the second I’m not distracted by something and let them in.
“I’m nowhere near where I want to be in life, nor where I even should be.”
“I’m running out of time to achieve the things I want. I’m running out of time where it’s acceptable to still be floundering and trying to figure things out; in fact, I think I’m well-past time.”
“I am not a functioning adult and I don’t have or use the tools necessary to be one.”
“I am not smart or talented enough to succeed as a writer so I better start looking at backup options; in fact, I should’ve pursued backup options years ago. But I’m not good enough for those either so maybe I should keep trying at the only thing I sort of know how to do.”
Etc.
When animals go into hibernation, their body temperatures and heart rates drop. They don’t spend all of their time sleeping (a common misconception) but, depending on the species, spend days or even weeks in a state of light slumber. Their metabolism slows down to about 5% of what is considered normal. I can sleep or stay in a state of hypnagogia for hours on end and during my most anxious or depressive episodes, I can survive on nothing but a protein bar and an apple. But even in these states when I most resemble a hibernating bear, I am not one.
On a cold January evening, despite having another day of sleeping too much and nibbling on a bagel as my stomach churned with my spiraling thoughts, I went to see my friends. We hadn’t seen each other in almost two months and I realized, besides my trips to the coffee shop, grocery shopping, and one solo trip to the movies, this was my first outing in months. I sat in my car outside my friend’s apartment, admiring the rain drizzling on my windshield while listening to the last few minutes of an episode of Emergency Intercom on Spotify. My car filled with the scent of one of my favorite comfort foods, buffalo chicken mac & cheese from Noodles & Co. It would be the first proper dinner I’d had in days.
Before going inside, I forced myself to push back the obsessive thoughts I’d been wallowing in all day and instead look forward to the time I’d get to spend with my two closest friends. When I got to the apartment, her dog greeted me with his signature one-ear-up one-ear-over grin and gave me a thousand kisses. We put on one of our all-time favorite dumb comedies, The Sweetest Thing, and fangirled over Cameron Diaz’s and Christina Applegate’s onscreen chemistry. We cracked jokes with each other and before I knew it, I had finished my meal. One friend left early but I stayed over past midnight and not once did I think about going home. On my way out, I gave my friend a long, proper hug, the kind that heals you. I didn’t realize how much I needed it until then.
For whatever reason, humans were not made for hibernation and we were not made to be alone. When the cycle of sleep, spiral, isolate, and repeat happens, I must remind myself that I am not a prisoner to my body and mind. I am capable of waking up in the dead of winter and finding the warmth I need to carry on.
Just want to say sorry. I shouldn’t have imposed my desires onto you. I messed it up in the end,