The Internalizer

If I had a superhero name, it would probably be “The Internalizer.”

Despite evidence that suggests internalizing is, or can be, detrimental to one’s physical health and/or emotional well-being, I find that it works for me. Or at least it has so far. That’s not to say that I won’t spontaneously combust one of these days. (Maybe I should get a medic alert tag that reads: Contents Under Pressure.)

I don’t mean to make light of the topic — just to suggest that coping mechanisms, like dietary needs or supplemental insurance, are unique to the person. You need to know yourself well enough to understand what does (and doesn’t) work for you, and to be comfortable enough in that to stay true to your own needs even when others tell you that they know best.

This is not a blanket statement, however. You shouldn’t necessarily dismiss the advice or observation of others out of hand. Sometimes they will see things you cannot see. Or they might offer ideas you’ve not had. Consider what they have to say and then decide if it will benefit you in any way.

The first time someone suggested I might need therapy was after my grandfather went into cardiac arrest during his surprise birthday party. (Some surprise.) I witnessed this happen, was tasked with called 911, and then went outside to flag down the emergency responders. I was maybe 12.

We followed the ambulance to the hospital and were immediately ushered into a private room — always a bad sign — and informed that my grandfather was unable to be revived. The social worker told my mom I might need to talk to somebody about what I’d seen.

I declined.

(I wonder now if this is where my dark sense of humor took root. I firmly believe that a true sign of emotional distress is when you can no longer find a reason to laugh — even if that reason is wildly inappropriate.)

I was also told that I might benefit from therapy after my father died, when my mom got sick and required a full-time caretaker (me), and after it became clear that my brother’s illness was terminal.

No, no, and no.

I suggested to some of these same people that they might benefit from therapy. As you can imagine, this was sometimes taken as wiseassery — but I was entirely serious.

Because some people need to express themselves outwardly, to be heard, to have an impartial observer bear witness and offer constructive feedback. Some people just need to vent. To exhaust themselves or to exhaust a topic. And if it works for them (you) I’m sincerely glad.

I, however, prefer a more solitary approach. I often like to be left alone with my thoughts. To make sense of them through an internal dialogue. (There’s a near constant conversation going on in my head that sometimes spills over into the external world, much to the amusement/befuddlement/concern of those around me.)

Or to write them down. (Because I often don’t know what I really think until I commit it to paper.) Or to find catharsis through reading books or listening to music that either speaks to me or the situation, or both.

This is partly because I’m an introvert by nature. While I’ve learned to be social by necessity — and enjoy it, even — I still feel most comfortable when I’m in my own company, or that of a small group of trusted friends. (I hope that doesn’t sound snobbish or sad. I don’t mean it to.)

I also suspect that the all-consuming nature of caretaking coupled with my other deadline-driven work plays a part. My time to socialize freely is exceedingly rare, and so I don’t like to spend those occasions dwelling on the negative. I’d rather be positive and present and enjoy the company, the normalcy, while I have the opportunity to do so.

Ironically, I tend to be a good listener — ahem, please ignore what my wife has to say on the topic — and people often feel comfortable sharing their innermost demons with me. This sometimes embarrasses them when they realize that they’ve done it (especially if their intent was to provide me an expressive outlet). But it shouldn’t. It’s the connectedness that counts, the feeling of camaraderie despite who is contributing more to the conversation.

And sometimes I just need to be out in the world for a few minutes to remember that there’s a world to be out in. Everything else is incidental. (Well, except for the coffee. Coffee is never incidental.)

On the few occasions that I do feel an imminent threat of self-combustion, there are a handful of people that I can call upon to unburden myself and know that they will avail themselves. And I can do this unburdening over coffee or cocktails. Casually. There’s no ticking timeclock. No triple digit fee. No expectations other than to just be. That’s my kind of therapy.

But, more often than not, it’s just me with my thoughts. Or me with my thoughts and a pen and a notebook, trying to make some sense of this life and my purpose in it.

Isn’t that what we’re all trying to do, regardless of how we do it?

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to be alone with myself for a bit.

JBV