*Here is a book I wrote for INFPs.
It is hard being an INFP (Check out the Myer-Briggs Personality Test if these four letters mean as much to you as leaves at the bottom of a teacup).
I mean REALLY hard.
Every day I feel like I am actually an alien masquerading as a human.
INFPs should live and be nurtured in a magical, ethereal land (see above image) where dreamers are appreciated, not trapped in the bell jar of reality. It may be fine for other people but it suffocates our souls.
Gah. It’s so hard to explain the torment. It’s like you’re on an entirely different wavelength from everyone else around you. And I don’t mean INFPs on are on a more intellectually or morally superior level. No, we’re just different from the norm. A little unconventional. And we know how much society hates that, don’t we?
When other people chase after money, INFPs look for passion, fulfillment and meaning. No, seriously. If money wasn’t needed for basic necessities such as food, we couldn’t give a damn about it. I can’t understand this consumer driven society. It’s just stuff. It’s just money. Just why is it so important to people? Mentioning this in public is not the best idea. I get sneered at for being unrealistic. And the conflict between passion and money is a never-ending war inside of me… Things like fame and money entice people enough to make them chase after them all their lives…and then on their deathbed they realize their hands and hearts are empty.
I’m also so sensitive I’m unsuitable for existence. One wrong word cuts me to the bone and I will mull over it miserably for days on end. I hate conflict so much that after going through one I feel like I’ve run a marathon. I just hurt so easily, there’s no emotional skin. I blush, I blunder, I make a fool out of myself and I can feeling the judging stares burn into my skin.
I care so much it hurts. I care so much I use up energy involuntarily. I try not to think about people or animals who are suffering not because I’m heartless but because it makes my chest tighten with agonizing empathy.
Whenever I talk to people, it’s like there is always this barrier. Always. Everyone else seem so carefree, like they belong, the words flowing out of their mouths with ease but me…I have to fake my way through it. No one around me wants to talk about the things I want to: death, existence, love, humanity, how insignificant Earth is, how the universe is so large it’s frightening, why we are here on this earth anyway and whether it all means anything. It’s too ‘morbid’ for light conversation and people just prevaricate my philosophical questions to go talk about the latest movies or whatever.
I can read people relatively well. I can tell which people are genuine and goodhearted, which are artificial and selfish. I can see through people’s masks. But no one else seems to see it. I knew this girl who was so artificial and arrogant when I was in school. But everyone loved her and thought her to be brilliant. No one saw through the façade. I felt like such an outsider, like I was seeing a ghost no one else saw.
I’m not an efficient person. My table is a mess. I never remember to wash dishes. I forget things. I’m always at the butt end of jokes because of this, that ‘scatter-brained’ person who is eccentric and can’t do anything properly.
When it’s one of those days where I’m engulfed with the meaninglessness of existence and slightly gloomy, I’m labeled as being depressed and pessimistic. I’m told to see the ‘silver lining’ and to be happy and jolly and optimistic and all smiles and gapped teeth. As if you’re defective if you aren’t happy-go-lucky most of the time.
I just have all these ideals and dreams and they’re like fragile glass windows through which I see the world. And life shatters them and I become jaded and cynical.
I think about existence and life and other deep topics which are not socially acceptable to voice and the burden of all this pondering weighs upon me every day.
Books and writing and creativity are my life blood. They pump me with feeling and energy to live another day in the real world.
I don’t know where I’m going with this post. I just can’t seem to put into words this feeling of being isolated and different, like no one understands. I’ve been to psychologists who have been nice enough but once I voice my concerns about death or something and they smile at me with only their mouths, I know I’m talking to the wrong person.
I don’t know. It’s just hard. I don’t know what else to say. People don’t know what it’s like sometimes unless they’re in an INFP’s shoes. It’s like the world is full of robust butterflies and among them are these tiny little white moths who are the INFPs and they are batted and bruised and pushed this way and that by the butterflies and the wind and life forever and ever.
I don’t know what else to say. So I think I’ll just stop now. This is probably a horribly boring and aimless post. I’m sorry.