I'm very introverted. It's no one else's fault, nor is there really fault to be found. Therefore, my collegiate years, now a little more than halfway in, have not been filled with the parties and...let's say independent weekends I'd assumed they'd be. Instead they've been filled with, well, many different things: LOTS of sleeping, some random bouts of illness, both mental and physical, but mostly? Quiet.

One of my favorite quotes I've ever read comes from food writer Ruby Tandoh. She says: "When you live by yourself, the first voice you stop hearing is your own." Though this is less true now, when I was at my previous school, I would go entire weekends without talking. This will shock some of my family members and friends as they will openly tell you: I adore talking. Though, I don't really like silences when with other people that could be talking. It's an anxiety thing, it makes me super uncomfortable. But, I really like talking. If you can get me on a specific topic for any significant period of time, I will love you forever, but I have found something rather magical about the silence.

Thus came the weekends. The first morning I woke up in college in my own room was one of the weirdest mornings I've ever had in my life. It was ten, no one else was awake. I slowly, very slowly pulled myself up and walked into the kitchen. I made myself a cup of coffee and realized: silence. Utter and complete silence. Usually, as mentioned above, my anxiety would kick in; I'd turn on the television, desperate for voices, music, sound, for something. However, for maybe the first time in my life, I wasn't scared of the silence.

Finishing my coffee, I put on some basic clothing (yoga pants and the same t-shirt I slept in) and walked the short distance to the dining hall in the apartment dorm complex. It had just opened. No one was there, other than the few dining hall employees and, again, there was quiet. It wasn't the absolute silence of my dorm, there was shuffling, a dropped spoon here and there. As I finished putting together my breakfast and readied my student card to pay for my meal, I felt a strange pang in my stomach. It took me a moment to recognize: I didn't want to talk. As a polite person, I typically like to say the usual pleasantries ('hello', 'thank you', 'how are you', etc.), but I didn't want to. It wasn't that the checkout attendant didn't deserve these pleasantries, I just didn't want to break the spell. The magical spell of the silence of the morning. It was such a weird, rebellious feeling. To my surprise and delight, the attendant didn't speak, didn't even make eye contact with me. She took a look at the food items I'd taken, ran them up, took my card from my outstretched hand, swiped it in the machine, returned the card to me, and nodded. I nodded to her, she smiled, and I smiled. It was done. In the eerie coolness of the morning, I walked back to my room.

I sat on my bed, placing my food on my bureau, and stretched out, feeling that odd cold sensation that quickly becomes warmth when you stretch out in the morning. I ate breakfast at my desk, turning on my laptop and watching a Tom Hanks interview from the night before, however, I kept the volume low, like really low, to the point of it nearly being absurd that I'd turned it on in the first place. Breakfast done, I turned on Friends, watching until around 11:45, when I fell asleep again (I fall asleep at rate which occasionally makes people think I have narcolepsy, which I don't, but don't be surprised by the amount of sleeping in this article). I woke up around 1:30, walking myself to the dining hall again for lunch. After grabbing a pre-fab turkey and swiss sandwich out of the fridge, I was thrilled to see that the kitchen was short-staffed. Again, this was a completely selfish happiness, it just meant that no one was working the cash register and I just had to sign my name and ID number before I left. The day continued much the same as the morning had, all in quiet or silence. Falling asleep again around 4 after doing a bit of homework, I woke up at 7 to a truly awesome recognition: I hadn't talked all day. I felt so strange, proud, a little worried, and just really peaceful. My mom called me at 8 and my voiced croaked when I answered. I didn't even tell her I hadn't talked all day, I kept it a little secret. Silly and fun, reverent and magical, my silent weekend was my private haven that I didn't want to share with anyone. I repeated it the next day, only saying a quick 'hi' to a roommate and murmuring an 'excuse me' to a boy whose shoulder I ran into. As I cried over Sense and Sensibility that evening, over a dinner of chow mein and chicken, I realized that I felt ready for Monday. I'd taken my time, my peace and quiet, and just was ready.

My weekends have become precious to me because of this. Unless I'm in a show, or going home to see family, I treat my weekends the same way every time. I'm very reverent about my Sundays and Saturdays. I love the quiet. I like silent dinners alone, reading books, catching up to get ready for the coming week, watching TV, and just sitting. A celebratory Saturday bagel tastes better when you haven't talked all day. The silent reverie of a couple of days gives me peace of mind like nothing else. It's not always possible, or even necessary, but when it happens, it's the most charming couple of days I've had in a while, usually.

I'm not saying every weekend has to be or can even be like this, but taking time for yourself isn't a crime and, no matter what that means for you, you should celebrate it. Taking necessary time for yourself isn't a 'guilty pleasure', it's usually a much-needed reboot. And, as I finish typing this on a completely silent Sunday, I can tell you quite candidly, I feel incredibly celebratory.