I was once what you would call an extroverted introvert. Creatures of a seemingly contradictory title, we are known to be a showboating people, constantly fighting to be the class clown or the cool guy at the party with the cliche lampshade over their head. Always in a good mood, always a willing shoulder to cry on.

Then comes the fun part: the crash. All introversion comes rushing back like a well-timed headache, inescapable and a reminder of the price of a social life. People like me may resort to bumming it for a day on the couch or in bed, eating macaroni and cheese at three in the morning and praying to various gods not to wake anyone up that we live with during late night online escapades. After a short while (which for me always meant a break between classes) you realize that three days have gone by and you've got an 8:30 a.m. lecture the next day.

I blamed a lot of these anti-social tendencies on the people around me. For years, I used to feel as though I was betrayed by my friends, the people who claimed to care so dearly for me. It wasn't like the movies where my Two-Bit Matthews or Dally would just come in through the screen door and rescue me from myself, and so I felt like an outcast. Ironically, my friends made me feel more depressed and alone than anything.

Per my girlfriend's advice, I took to Facebook just to let everyone around me know how done I was with their nonsense. I wasn't going to be ignored or denied my right to a fairy tale companionship that was perfect in every way. I told them that if they didn't want me in their lives, all they had to do was to tell me straight up; no more lies, no more excuses.

I got about five likes on that status and no messages. Two months later, my girlfriend left. I really was alone.

This time, I took what had happened out on myself. I felt like I had been the biggest idiot ever to live on the planet, one who wasn't worth a single person's time. My introversion and depression took over to the point where I wondered who my true friends were, if I'd ever even had any. Then, one day in the commuter lounge at school, I joined a conversation. The next day, I did the same thing again. These people who I barely knew helped me rebuild myself from the ground up to the point where I felt I could finally be comfortable at college. With each passing day, this cleansing process made an honest and functional person out of me. Where before I had binged on Gears of War matches and Pepsi, I began to miss the faces I began to know when I was alone. I let this genuine love of being around people rekindle in me, and I could finally answer that question I'd been asking the universe for years: How could this happen to me?

Introspection is important, and in being an extroverted introvert, I had let my depression-based crashes become inevitable. The ailment I suffered from was always the ending to a fun night out with my now ex-girlfriend, or after an event on Arcadia's lawn. After realizing that I had let these feelings and this self-fulfilling prophecy take over my life, I had become someone who wore masks. I was no one, a faceless man. Y'know, like on Game of Thrones, only I didn't murder people.

The past year flipped my personality completely. I retain some of my introverted tendencies, such as my patented incredible awkwardness, but I do so with a smile on my face. I have gained a level of self awareness that cannot be compared simply by removing myself from my current situation and asking myself if anything I was doing added to any unpleasantness I felt. It stopped me from becoming a doormat or a loner, and it gave me a level of empathy that I aim to put to good use every day, even at my retail job where most customers don't deserve it.

Stop and ask yourself occasionally, "Am I putting someone else's needs above my own?" or, "Have I been gentle towards myself recently?" Try it for a week, and I'll bet the solution you seek to a seemingly impossible moral dilemna may just find you.