Dear Extrovert

 I wonder how you function. Could you tell me why, there's such a fundamental gap, between you and I? 

I have to take a deep breath when walking into a room, but nothing can prepare me for what I imagine you presume. 

I wonder if you like me, if you think I'm rude, if you think I'm lazy or if something I said could have been misconstrued.

When I don't know where I should go, or sit, or stand, or talk, I would rather cry in a corner then go on a long walk. 

I deeply want to be known and get to know others, but I hold myself hostage, destined to be alone and unencumbered. 

It's not just an awkwardness or something I decide, it's a physical reaction that I desperately hope subsides. A nagging, dragging, overwhelm that holds like a vice, that's crushing and devastating and exhausting and can't be cured with your advice. 

I want to be that person, that saunters around the room, full of energy and charisma and can help and function "normally". 

I want you to know that I admire your abilities, I wish for hours at a time that I could be less different. I know it makes others uncomfortable when I am too quiet. My brain must listen first so that I can figure out what's safe to share and what isn't. 

I love everyone, my desire is to show it, but I just have a hard time, and I want you to know it isn't because of you, or Tom or Dave or Larry. It's just the way I'm wired and it can be quite scary.