Homebody vs Roadrunner

I am a homebody. I am perfectly content to stay home on my days off, and I feel zero guilt if I do not leave my home during those days.

But, some people think that means there’s something wrong with me. Am I depressed? Am I ill? Or, and this is the worst, am I just plain lazy?

I would never have thought that I was that “different” from others, but I am very much being made to feel that way. I am being made to feel that there’s no way I can be happy, staying cooped in my house with my books and my writing.

Nevermind the fact that I work 50 hours per week, go to school, and maintain a home with two teens. It is impossible to be lazy (or ill, for that matter) with a schedule like mine. Exhausted? Absolutely. Unhappy? Absolutely not.

My downtime is exactly that: MINE. Some people choose to wear the rubber off their tires because it makes them happy, makes them feel fulfilled and energized. Why is it so difficult to comprehend that others may not feel the same way about those activities? It does NOT mean that they are suffering from some secret malady and require immediate rescue.

Books and writing ARE my rescue. They are my haven, and my home is my sanctuary. I do not require a crush of people nor a tangle of traffic to bring excitement to my life. I am not wired that way, and no amount of “concern” will change that.

Sitting here, at my writing desk while everyone else sleeps, windows thrown open to allow morning birdsong in, enjoying the beautiful view of towering flowering white and purple azaleas: THIS energizes me. This brings peace to my soul and centers my mind. This makes my heart happy.

“You are too young to stay cooped up” they say. “You are wasting your life” they say. “You will regret this one day” they say.

How can I regret not doing what I never enjoyed in the first place??

I don’t expect people to understand my affinity for literature. Most people I know would rather walk across hot coals in their bare feet than read one act of a play. They do not understand that the beauty of old English touches my heart more than a great sale on boots.

But, I do not ask them “What is wrong with you?! How could you pass up THIS for THAT?!”

Yet, I am constantly asked that question, and looked at like I’ve grown a second head.

The argument has grown old, and I am weary of it. Call me different, call me eccentric; I will embrace those titles in a world where “sameness” has become the norm, and expanding your mind is looked upon as “weird”.

I love myself, I love my life, and I love all those around me who see me as “different”.

Besides, I like things that are different. They hold their own kind of special beauty.


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