Strange Things Are Afoot At The Circle K

Occasionally my blog is an update on my psychological processes.  But this past month has seen a radical change in my behavior, and I’m not quite sure where it’s coming from.
As y’all know, I’m an introvert who does a darned fine extrovert impression.  It’s not that introverts don’t like people – it’s that being around people drains our batteries on some level, and we need to go recharge by curling up in a room, alone, with a book or a game or whatever meditative offering we use to become social little monkeys again.
I feel like a broken iPhone, because my introvert batteries aren’t charging any more.
I went to Context, which was a wonderful con where I had a much better time than anticipated, but when I got back I couldn’t move.  I was so low-energy that I called in sick to work the next day, because I couldn’t even answer email.  I felt physically ill.
And that’s been happening everywhere.  Though I love gaming, when my wife had to cancel our usual Thursday date I was thrilled, because I didn’t have to see anyone.  I usually go out a couple of times a week, but I curled up and watched reality shows and didn’t talk to anyone, and by the time I went over to the Meyers to celebrate Yom Kippur with some of my most beloved friends, I thought I was ready.  Ninety minutes later I was screaming-ready to leave, shivering from oversocialization, and just unready in all ways.
I don’t want to be that guy who sits around the house watching Ink Master and playing endless rounds of Civilization, but… I appear to be that guy.  At least this month.
I don’t want to be around people.
There have been numerous theories as to why this is: the usual suspect, the mourning over Rebecca, is of course front and center.  Some have suggested my spring Seasonal Affective Disorder has finally flipped to the fall, which will at least stop stupid people from asking me, “Hey, you’re depressed in the spring, are you sure you’re doing it right?”  And others have suggested maybe it’s the Internet, I’ve been in a few mild scraps with people and though I’m not afraid of going toe-to-toe with people in online arguments that does burn my batteries when it turns from “debate” to “damage control.”
I don’t know.  But I feel strained, all the time.  My battery is not quite broken; I can feel that maddening trickle of charge, hours plugged into my usual recharge sources, watching that little meter ever quite leave the red zone.  Making me scared to leave the house, because inevitably I’ll get somewhere and my socialization will go dead, a flat black, and I’ll be unable to find my way home.
And, as always, when I experience a psychological flutter like this, I worry that this is the end.  I’ve been lucky.  I’ve been swamped by seasonal depression, and bad fits, but what if this is the new configuration of my life?  What if something snapped inside, something battered by Rebecca and my heart disease and the stresses of writing, and now this is the way I’ll be?  How will I adjust?
Maybe I’ll be fine.  But I can’t count on that.  I really can’t.  And so I’m just trying to recover with new videogames, with more cuddles from Gini, with more reruns of Ink Master, but it’s slow going.
This is a month.  It’s a long month.  And I’m hoping my desire for company will return, but right now I just want to crawl into a hole and pull the dirt down on my head.