If you had asked me a decade ago the worst thing a person could be, I would’ve immediately responded “boring.” Without hesitation, without a hint of irony, I would’ve stood by this answer. Back then, I was younger, slimmer, and more arrogant, and I couldn’t see anything worse than being forgettable. I was approaching the end of high school and already fretting about people forgetting me in the coming years. I was also struggling heavily with undiagnosed mental illnesses and using poor coping mechanisms to get through each day.

I truly believed that there was nothing worse than a boring person, someone forgettable, someone who blends into a crowd. The person you meet at a party and a few hours later, you’ve already forgotten having spoken to them.

Well, it’s a decade later, and I can safely say that in every way that mattered to my younger self, I am that boring person. And thank goodness for that.

I ran from boring

A little context on those nasty little mental illnesses I mentioned, as they’re pretty relevant to the story. I struggle with borderline personality disorder, which is quite a complex mental illness to sum up in an elevator pitch. I recommend reading up on BPD, as there’s a painful number of misconceptions circulating about it. But one very relevant aspect of it is an intense fear of abandonment. I was, and still am, terrified of people leaving me. I also see it as an inevitable thing. So I resist and self-sabotage, I manipulate and beg, I basically centre my existence around keeping people in my life.

You can see why being boring would be an issue in this case. Who would stay with a boring person? I already knew I was difficult to love, whether platonically or romantically, so it felt like the least I could do was be interesting. I put all of my attention into being fun, easy-going, talkative, passionate, spontaneous, and everything else that early 2000s movies had told me a non-boring woman was.

I tried to dress interesting. I dyed my hair a bunch of different colours. I researched conversation starters. I memorised jokes like I’d be tested on them. I was promiscuous and over-eager in encounters. I was always down for a good time. I was always suggesting games or encouraging people to drink more. I was a ‘yes girl.’

Another aspect of BPD is that you mirror other people around you. You have an unstable sense of self, so you pick up on traits like others would pick up a hat. I saw everyone around me as better, so I imitated their traits. I pretended to like obscure, foreign movies and to enjoy sweaty nights spent dancing in a club. I forced myself to be more extroverted; a loud, giggly person who was always at the centre of a party.

The person I’m describing probably doesn’t sound very likable, but I can assure you that she wasn’t boring.

I became boring

After so long running away from boring and thinking it would be the end of everything, I did the unthinkable and became boring.

There are several reasons for this. Firstly, I got diagnosed with BPD and realised how much this fed into all my other issues. All these things that I had assumed were just a part of my terrible personality turned out to be symptoms of a larger issue. I started working with a therapist to uncover who I was and what aspects were rooted in my BPD.

Secondly, just before this, my father passed away. I was twenty-one years old and the first of my friends to lose a parent. A lot of things that had seemed so important suddenly paled in comparison to this life event. I stopped doing things I didn’t want to do, as they felt so pointless. I lost contact with a lot of people over this period.

Thirdly, the pandemic happened — I know, boo, we’re not meant to talk about it anymore. Suddenly, I was forced to stay home and spend extended amounts of time alone or with my partner. I couldn’t go to bars or parties, and I found I really didn’t miss them. I spent evenings reading books or watching shows, and found it to be comfortable. The pandemic ended, and I discovered I still didn’t miss nightlife or crowded places. I found that I still valued a quiet night at home.

Instead of worrying that I was missing out on life or losing people, I started working out what I actually wanted, and it turned out to be a lot of ‘boring’ things.

I am boring

In many ways, I am boring. I stopped drinking because of the effects on my mental health. I love to go to bed at the same time every night. I like waking up early and going for a long walk. Nothing sounds better than cosying up with a really good book. My work is more important to me than many other things. I have the smallest group of friends I’ve ever had and no real motivation to change that. In group settings, I’m sometimes quieter, as I prefer listening or asking questions.

In many ways, I am closer to happiness than I have ever been. My depression is still a battle some days, and I need the help of a prescription for antidepressants. But I’m finally making choices for myself and working out who I am on a daily basis. I’m not forcing myself to be someone I’m not to keep people close because the people who’d stay for that aren’t the ones I really need.

I’m boring. I went to a dinner party recently and had to preface it by informing them that I don’t drink alcohol or eat meat. You can bet they had a lot of fun with that. But I’m okay with it. I’m okay with not standing out in a crowd or being at the top of every invite list. I’m okay, as I’m finally looking after myself. This slower, quieter self might be just what the doctor ordered. I may not be the most interesting person in a room, but at least I’m myself. At least, I’m living a life I enjoy, one that sometimes seemed so far out of reach when I was struggling.