21 Things This INFP Dislikes

cat1. The fact that our outsides do not reflect our insides, yet people insist on judging us based on how we look, act and talk, while what truly makes up a person’s identity, the activity rustling up in their mind when they are alone, is largely ignored.

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2. Also, that our insides are infinitely more complicated than our outsides, even though human biology is complex and magnificent. But people only judge us based on our outsides! Half the time the way I act does not in the least reflect how I feel. It’s like looking at an old-fashioned watch and thinking it simple trinket because you can’t see the intricate tiny world of cogs and wheels and tiny little specks of crystal inside it that keeps it functioning. Very infuriating.

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3. My compulsive self-sabotaging behaviour. Basically—and I do not know why I did this—in the past, when someone thought I was strange, or odd, or awkward, and I knew they thought that, then, when around them, for some reason, compulsively, I would act more strange, odd or awkward than I normally would, thereby cementing their bad opinion of me for eternity. I don’t know why I did it. It still happens. If I sense a doctor sees me as a shy, sweet, little anxious creature, then, gradually, as the session wears on, I will act more shy, more anxious, and more like a little goody-two-shoes. And then I end up not getting proper treatment because they think there’s nothing particularly wrong with me. It’s like my mind has a mind of its own—one that wants to destroy me. I hate it.

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4. Food. Not all food. Just certain foods. Whenever I put something into my mouth, into my body, in the back of my mind, there always lingers a fear, or disgust, of all the artificial chemicals and flavours and icky-stuff that I must be ingesting, and it makes enjoying food very difficult. If I weren’t small and wraith-like already—lithe, as I like to call it, or “bony”, as my brother does—I would most likely be anorexic. Not something to be proud of, I know, but it’s true: I’ve got the perfect mix of perfectionism, neuroticism and self-hate to develop the disorder. So I suppose it’s lucky I’m already thin. One less thing to obsess about.

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5. Boring people. Very few people who think they’re boring people are actually boring. Most people are very, very interesting, even though they’re ordinary, or think they’re ordinary. I like to watch them, when I can. But there are some people who are, literally, empty husks. There’s nothing behind their eyes. There is nothing inside them. It’s all shallow, hollow, empty. If you encounter one, flee.

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6.  The gap between ideas and their execution. As a writer—and you’ll just have to take my word for it—I have an explosive imagination. My imagination, when unleashed, vomits rainbows all over the place so you can’t take a step without splashing into a multi-coloured puddle. However there exists a discrepancy between my writing skills, and my creativity—namely, that the latter is a thousand times more developed than the former. What I’m left with, essentially, is a lot of wonderful, poorly-executed ideas. My intention is for the book to be Hunger Games-esque, for example, but it turns out more along the lines of children cobbling each other with sticks and stones in a playpen, if you get my drift. It’s awful. I don’t know if this situation will improve, to be honest, but it’s certainly something that keeps me up at night.

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7. Cities. Need I say more?

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8. Logical, extroverted, pragmatic people, who have either little imagination or compassion (and those two deficiencies often exist in conjunction). They’re loud, they’re brassy, they’re charismatic—but they’re only bright colours and trumpets and streamers; there’s no substance to them, nothing real, or true, or beautiful. It’s suffocating to be around them, even only in passing. They don’t see things. Unfortunately, irritatingly, for some unearthly reason, I always tend to find myself attracted to men like that, who in turn tend to find me too strange and too quiet. So I end up hating them, and hating myself for being drawn to them. Gah.

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9. Having to eat cage eggs because it is a cheap source of protein and you cannot afford free-range ones. I mean, I know I should be grateful that I can even afford food, but every bite of an egg that plopped out from a suffering chicken makes me want to throw it back up. I feel physically sick after eating them. But I keep them down, because, well, calories maketh man, after all. No calories maketh skeletons—and I can’t die yet, not when I haven’t written and published the books I want to write and publish.

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10. Cities. I’m sorry, but my loathing for cities runs so deep that it bears mentioning again. I am convinced—though my psychologist is not—that the city is the sole reason for my anxiety, depression and inability to leave the house for long periods. Living in the city gives me panic attacks. Literally. The roads, the roaring trucks, the cars, the countless people, the fumes, the noise, the colours, the lights, stimulation bombarding you from every direction. I belong in a quiet cottage, on the moor, with some cats on the front porch and a cool wind blowing through the grey sky. The world does not care for my comfort, of course, so in the meantime, I will go to therapy, suffer in silence, and dream of better places, as we all do.

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11. Loneliness. I am deeply, deeply lonely. It is because I feel so different from people much of the time. I have always felt like an outsider—I know, the old cliché—and I have yet to meet a single human in flesh who could truly see me, and understand me. Understand my quirkiness, my creativity, my weird imagination, my madness—and not just understand it, but accept it. Like I said, I like to dream.

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12. Lack of originality. I hate cliches, I hate the old, the banal, the worn, the trivial; it grates on my nerves like nothing else under the sun does, including when I myself spout cliches, or platitudes.

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13. Time. Or, more specifically, the passing of time. In fact, I actually have actual panic attacks because time is passing so quickly. Out of nowhere, I suddenly feel as though everything is ending, that there is nothing good to hold onto in the world, that if I take one step further, my foot will land in a grave—my own. And so I panic, and pant like a stallion after a gallop, feel like I’m dying, then spend the next half an hour calming myself down. Yes, it’s very fun. I adore being me.

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14. How I don’t actually have a definite personality. At least, I think I don’t. I don’t have a solid sense of self. I don’t know who I am. Who I am changes everyday. I feel like a different person every minute, every second, constantly shifting and changing like some psychological kaleidoscope. It’s frightening. It’s really, really frightening. I’m like some ghost, pretending to be human.

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15. Waste. All kinds of waste make me cringe and groan inwardly, as though someone were unspooling my intestines from the lower half of my body out through my rectum. Okay, bad imagery, I apologise, I don’t know where that came from. Again, like I said: no definite personality. Look through my blog posts, and you’ll find each of them uses a different voice. But, back to waste. I hate waste. I hate seeing rainwater trickle into drains. I hate plastic. I hate packaging. I hate throwing stuff in the bin. I hate flushing the toilet when that waste could be returned to the ground to fertilise the soil. Unfortunately I live in a unit, so environmentally friendly ways of disposing one’s waste, and just, well, living, in general, are limited. I hate it so much I could scream. Can someone just let me live with them on their farm? Pretty please? I’ll be quiet, I promise. You won’t even know I’m there.

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16. Anything inelegant. This is one of my greatest vices. It is the source of all my misery. Or at least a great deal of it. Basically, I loathe vulgarity, in all its forms. I like for everything I see, read, and come across to be beautiful, refined, elegant. And when I say “elegant”, I don’t mean luxurious. I don’t find mansions and flashy cars and beautiful gowns elegant; they’re as horrendous to me as carcasses and tortured bodies. Instead, I like for things to be natural, and pure, and unsullied. Birds, for instance, or snails, are very elegant. Smiling people are very elegant. But things like cursing, bodily fluids like urine, and sex—well, they’re not very elegant, to my mind, and I struggle to accept them into my worldview of life. It’s the idealist, in me, I think, wanting everything to be untainted. Pure.

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17. Men. I dislike men. I dislike them because my father was one, and he was not a very good one. I also dislike them because sometimes I like them, and I don’t know what to do about it, and just end up making a fool of myself and crying into my pillow and hating myself for weeks afterwards. Best to be avoided, in my experience, even if your heart yearns for love and romance.

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18.  Sport. I don’t like most sports, especially the violent ones. I don’t like basketball, tennis, wrestling, boxing, car-racing, horse-racing. Any aggressive activities, really, make me cringe inwardly when I watch them. I do enjoy watching synchronized swimming and ice-skating, though. And snail-racing. That’s always very exciting.

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19. Sunshine. Yes, you read that right: I do not like sunshine. It hurts my eyes. It hurts my face. It’s too stimulating, too bright. I like cloudy days, rainy days, and apocalyptic days that make daytime resemble nighttime because the sky is filled with swarming clouds of carnivorous bats ready to devour us all. That’s it.

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20. Children and babies. One, because all the babies I have encountered in my life—a grand total of two—have hated me, and started crying the moment I touched them, sometimes even looked at them. Two, because children and babies are noisy, and very stimulating, and I am a person who needs her peace and quiet as much as she needs air to breathe. And three, because I have a suspicion—just a hunch, mind—that no-one will ever willingly marry someone like me, and that therefore I will never have a child, and be able to pour my love and energy into something adorable. This sentiment does not last long, however, and I soon revert to comforting myself with the prospect of a future filled with books and cats, both of which are much more manageable and delightful than children, anyway. Who needs to play happy families, and have a husband, and children in real life, when you can write stories about having a family of your own, and dress-up cats in bonnets and take them for rides in prams, eh?

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21. Myself. I dislike myself. Sometimes. Sometimes, I just want to slap myself across the face and say, very nicely, “You dummy, why did you do or think or say that? That’s it, no dinner for you tonight, you’re grounded, young lady.” Sometimes, I want to do that everyday.

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4 thoughts on “21 Things This INFP Dislikes

  1. I don´t know what to say about it , it´s just..wow . It hurts reading how much pain you´ve already been through …you´re really strong . I can relate in many ways with you because I´m an INFP as well . I just want to say something : Never give up , things will get better , someday you´ll be really happy . I´m sure there are people who believe in you and I don´t know you but I believe in you too. Please never give up.We need human beings like you , it´s fascinating . You are important , you matter . I hope someday you will understand ..good luck .
    Esther 😉 ( 14 years old )

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