How INFPs Approach Love

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The short answer: We don’t.

Or, at least, I don’t. I can’t speak for all INFPs – every person is different even if they share the same personality type, so perhaps this should be titled “How An INFP Views Love” – but I can safely say that “approach” is not the right word to describe the way I gingerly dodge and avoid the arena of relationships, turning up my nose at the whole business around others and then wistfully gazing over my shoulder at the spectacle when no-one is watching.

The long answer is a little more complicated.

My past is a contributing factor to this caution and fear. When I was a teenager, my father walked out the door without a backward glance, leaving my mother and I without the funds to pay even the rent for the week. To this day, I have not seen him since. At the time, the sense of abandonment I felt was like a howl in my heart I could not express verbally. Even when he was in life my life, he was awfully distant, awfully selfish, and awfully unloving; I remember he used to spend thousands on the perfect sound system yet complain when I needed fees to pay for school excursions. So it only follows that, as he was the first man I tried to love, my opinion of the male species in general is quite low.

Not all men, of course, are as bad as him; lots of men are nice and good and kind; I am not so bitter as that. But in terms of relying on men, on handing over to them my love and trust, as a partner – frankly, I would sooner stick a skillet in my eye. I am fond of likening myself to a woman who carries invisible burns, and now, every time I come close to any “fireplaces”, even if they are not lit, I cringe and step away. This, combined with my extreme desire for love and affection, naturally anxious personality, and high sensitivity, tends to make me view love with the wide-eyed gaze of a gazelle caught in a lion’s sight.

Then there is the small matter of my sense of separateness from humanity. In truth, I do not think there are any glaring differences in myself compared to others, apart from perhaps an increased tendency for introspection. But this introspection, which some might call self-absorption, means I am a highly self-conscious creature, which means in interactions with other people I am overly focused on myself and my own shortcomings, which makes me feel removed, and, well, different. Out of place. An outcast.

Being creative doesn’t help matters, as often what you want to talk about are too strange and random and bizarre to be palatable for most people. For instance, most people do not want to make up as many symbols for Death as they can while waiting in line to borrow books at the library (though I can’t imagine why). What all this boils down to, essentially, is that there are a limited cohort of people in society with whom I can find any common ground with, and feel comfortable with. University campuses are infested with people who talk of the most banal and trivial subjects; I have yet to find that sort of odd, artsy young graduate who is by himself a lot of the time, and seems to see and notice things others do not. Basically, I like unique people, and in society there are not many unique people, mostly selfish or boring or indifferent people. Thus my very nature greatly limits the available romantic candidates. Until I find a man strolling alone through a cemetery in the sunshine, looking thoughtfully at headstone after headstone, deep in philosophical thought, and who is not a serial killer trying to select the best place to bury his victims that night, falling in love is unlikely, if not impossible.

Another complication is my own self-hatred. Because I spend the majority of my life inside my own head, thinking and thinking and thinking, it gives me a lot of time to analyse myself, physically and psychologically, and, truth be told, I do not often like what I find. Self-love is an ongoing battle, every second posing a choice to love myself or to berate myself. On my rare good days, I see myself as a beautiful creature, both inside and out, kind and intelligent and sweet. On my bad days, which is most days, it is hard for me to look in the mirror without feeling visceral surge of disgust; to not loathe my arms, any body hair, my legs, my skin; to not see myself as an a reserved and aloof woman no-one could stand to be in the same room with, let alone love. On the worst days, I am disgusted by my own bodily fluids, disgusted when I pass gas or burp, disgusted by every word that comes out of my mouth and every thought that crosses my mind, am unable to look in the mirror or leave the house, and wish I were a pristine, ethereal creature who was above all humans matters and concerns. Such an unhealthy mental state, need I say, would not be conducive for a good relationship. To love others, you must love and accept yourself – and I am just not there yet, and might not be for a long while and after many hours of therapy.

On top of all this, I am just not an easy person to be around for most people. For one thing, I am very, very introverted. I am most comfortable going through great swathes of my day talking in short bursts, and spending the rest of the time observing the world and the people around me and holing myself up in my room, doing introverted tasks, like studying, reading and writing, for hours on end. This annoys people who like to talk. Even other introverts get a little huffy at my extensive desire for alone time.

And then there are times when I am just plain unpleasant to be around. Yes, I am kind, and caring, and I would never hurt a single creature willingly; but in the privacy of my home, I can be moody and impulsive, wallowing in misery one second and then taken to the heights of ecstasy by a beautiful piece of artwork. If riled, my ability to intuit exactly what would hurt the other person most makes my tongue sharp as a thorn. When my writing is not going well, or when I begin to despair of my literary ambitions coming to fruition, the door is shut, my soul is dark, and anyone who dares come inside my room does so at their own peril. Whoever does end up being my partner will have to be someone strange or crazy enough to want to put up with my mercurial moods, my bouts of self-loathing and depression, and my isolated nature. It’s a tall order, is all I’m saying.

In theory, I am a romantic, but in reality, I would much rather be alone than spend my time around someone I cannot be myself around, doesn’t understand me, and doesn’t support my creative endeavors. With the right person, I will appear bright, sensitive, self-aware, creative and talented. All the wrong person will see is a moody and immature woman who holes herself up in her room for long hours and possesses the irritating tendency to gush over the beauty of a dead insect, a rusted tap, a flower poking its way through the footpath. I need to find (or stumble, more like; “find” suggests one is actively searching) someone whose weirdness interlocks with mine, just like everyone else, and until then, I will file away Love to the back of my drawers, to be taken out some other day, and leave the business of dating to others.

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4 thoughts on “How INFPs Approach Love

  1. I can relate to this very well as an INFP! It’s like you read my mind about how we act with the right people vs. how we act with the wrong people (A.k.a. most people). I am 33 and some guys find me to be either very immature or “psycho”. To me, psycho isn’t shedding tears and being upset if someone cancels anticipated plans. The right guy will turn me into a happy princess who only wants to do good for the world. Love can make us so very happy, but we find it so difficult to find that real love.
    P.S. I was married for a few years and ended up leaving so I could travel and find my freedom. We’re also prone to leaving the people who actually love us! 🙂

    • I am so glad you could relate, and thank you for commenting, it really made me feel a little less alone. Yes, it’s funny, we’re romantics, yet we’re also terribly free-spirited, and it’s sometimes hard to reconcile the two traits when it comes to relationships. Find someone who likes to travel just as much as you do, and places little obligations on you, would be my advice. Or try and be happy with being alone, as I am attempting to do. Nothing is ever enough. Being with someone leads to dissatisfaction and restlessness and boredom. Being alone makes us sad. Which is probably why we spend so much time in our heads, inhabiting the realm of our imaginations, where all contradictions agree with one another, and we can go where we like and do what we want and be who we are without sacrificing being loved.

  2. I can relate to this a lot and I think you are doing the right thing, holding out for someone who truly understands you. I think INFPs need that in a relationship like plants need water. I’ve had two relationships with men who were kind, but didn’t understand my need to be authentic and uncompromising and live up to the values that I held so dearly. Those relationships left me feeling so empty and lonely, eventhough there was nothing wrong with the men per sé. It’s like I can stand other people not understanding me, thinking I’m overexaggerating or weird, but not my partner. My partner needs to be on my team. He doesn’t need to be the same in everything, but shared values, respect and appreciation for who I am are really important to me.
    I also like to write and eventhough I might never finish a novel, I need a partner who believes that I can, if I put my mind to it. I’d like a partner who knows what’s important to me and helps me focus, because I have major issues with procrastination and insecurity. This is something I’m trying to work on myself, but still, it would be a nice touch.

    This might all sound a little demanding, but I think INFPs love deeply when they have found someone who really understands them. A lot of INFPs love deeply anyway and then feel guilty when the relationship doesn’t seem to be enough. I think we have the right to be more picky in our relationships and choose wisely who we give our hearts to. This all in theory, of course, because I’ve often enough had crushes on people which were beyond my control. But I think as we grow older and get to know ourselves better we learn that just because we have feelings for someone doesn’t mean that they’d make a good partner. And so we learn to hold out more. 🙂

    Lastly, I do want to throw in there that men who might understand us and be good to us not always look like the artsy, introverted type. 😉

    • Thank you, that’s a very good point. 🙂 Only, in my head, I have this fantasy of an artsy, introverted man who understands me. But who knows who we will end up falling in love with, right? And I agree with everyone you said, completely and utterly. For INFPs, relationships are about cultivating that little space where you can feel seen and validated and understood, and it is especially important for people like us because usually NO-ONE sees or validates or understands us. So if we don’t have it in the relationship, that little bubble of love and safety, our souls can die. Thank you for commenting, and for making me feel less alone and making me think. I struggle with insecurity and procrastination to an unhealthy degree also, and it’s good to know others do, too (well, not good that we’re all putting things off and feeling unsure of ourselves, but misery does love company). I wish you the best with your writing, and with love. 🙂 ❤

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