I know I’m an introvert; it’s not a case of one of those confusing differences where I have to explain that I know the difference between being shy and being introverted because I do and I’m both; I guess if you were sticking labels, I’d have “shy introvert” plastered over my back. And when you’re an introvert spending most of your day with extroverts, life is bound to get shaky.

I take after my father — logical, quiet and with a low tolerance for extended social situations. I suspect that’s part of why my father and I can converse so well, because we match each other’s thinking at some level. However, seeing as the only time my father or I really have for conversation is during our family dinners, that spark of understanding seems rather wasted sometimes.

Most of my time at home is spent with my mother, sister and (for the time being) my grandmother. They don’t even need a label to show they’re extroverts; it’s readily apparent in their every laugh, every smile, every step.

Saying we’re different is an understatement and while they’ve always accepted that I’m different, that I’m more like my dad, I don’t believe they’ve ever really understood it. To them, parties are the bane of existence so they can never understand why I might rather stay at home, slurping ramen while watching a television show. I can never match them in exuberance or loudness and sometimes I have trouble understanding them too.

It’s like playing a constant game of catch-up to fit in, because being surrounded by three women who are the very opposite of everything I am does make me feel somewhat pressured to fit into the mold. I want to be understood by them in the same way they understand by others and so somehow I’m always ending up with half-attempts that don’t fool them and end with me feeling irritable about making a fool of myself.

In private, I wish they would try to understand what being an introvert might be like. I wish they’d acknowledge that not sharing a love of huge social gatherings didn’t make me a social recluse, that just because I wasn’t loud and chatty all the time, I wasn’t miserable. It confuses them that I can be so practical and straightforward and they take my lack of expression as some internal stressor; they don’t know about the hours I spend in their presence, laughing loudly when they do, chatting my own ears off just to fit their illusion of what a cheerful young woman should be.

Maybe it’s a crime against myself to absorb it all — the pitying looks, the befuddled glances, all the gestures and cues that mark me as being ‘different’. But, sometimes I’m made to feel that being an introvert is a crime in itself; if it’s not a flaw, I’m not entirely sure what I’m trying to fix.