Is Childcare A Good Career for INFPs?


The answer to this is maybe. Maybe. It really depends on the kind of INFP you are. While childcare is a rewarding and challenging profession, it may be suited to INFPs on a certain level. Since I have recently started a childcare traineeship, I would like to offer some of my advice, for those INFPs out there who might be looking into childcare as a career option.

It’s not just about looking after kids. I would say, as an assistant in a daycare centre, especially if you are placed in the babies room, most of your time will be taken up by tasks such as getting the food ready, cleaning up after the kids after they have eaten, disinfecting surfaces and taking out the trash. In other words, a lot of menial tasks, which a lot of people might not think of when the word “childcare” and its entailing tasks pops into their head. Having said that, the rest of the 25% of your time is spent with the kids, and you get to play and interact with the cute, little darlings. That part, in my opinion, is the best part of the job—giving them hugs, cuddling them, and touching their chubby, little baby faces.

This job is very practical, and hands-on. You will be changing nappies, and dealing with faeces and urine, although the smell isn’t too bad (I can’t say too much on this, as I haven’t been allowed to change nappies yet). Most of your time is spent in a flurry of physical activities, and yes, while these activities use a certain part of your brain, and require a certain kind of practical intelligence, other parts of your brain, that are used for studying, reading and writing, which are parts that I often use, or like to use, remain, well, unused. In other words, don’t go into this job thinking you’re going to be quoting Shakespeare anytime soon: you’re going to be changing nappies, and wiping noses, and cleaning, and preparing. It’s very physical, very hands-on, and for me, as someone who is a little bit on the intellectual side (not much), this came as a bit of a shock to the system, if you will, and I’m still not entirely over it. After work, I have to immerse myself in reading and writing in order to feel like my old self again.

That being said, considering there are so many jobs out there for which INFPs are unsuited for, childcare is a good option. There is little room for anxiety, because you’ll generally just be interacting with co-workers and children, and, unless you are actually a daycare leader, which I’m not, you’ll not be speaking much to parents. As a daycare assistant, the most I’ve ever said to a parent is a simple “Hello.” The noise from all the crying is something you just get used to—I found it wasn’t a problem for me, because the sound of children crying, while it is distressing because it means something is wrong and I feel the need to help the child, isn’t something which provokes anxiety or I find to be irritating.

Once again, even though I’ve already repeated myself several times, childcare is a very hands-on job, and for the cerebral, and oftentimes daydreamy INFP, this can be quite difficult, and hard to get used to at first. I don’t think I’ve completely accustomed to it yet. But as a way to survive, and make money, and support yourself, it’s not too shabby. INFPs are naturally gentle and nurturing, so we oftentimes warm to the kids very easily, and vice versa, and there’s nothing better than seeing a lovely little smile on a cute, little face. If you’re OK with a hands-on, very practical job, aren’t afraid of a bit of faeces and urine, menial tasks, and love children for who they are, enough to help put on their socks and shoes and change their nappies, then this is the career for you.


First Day Of Work


Recently, I  picked up a game called Gaia Online, which is a virtual world, where you can chat on forums, play games, dress up your avatar and do all sorts of fun things.

If I had to recommend one game to anyone, it would be that one. I have a ton of fun just browsing through the marketplace, trying on all the different items and seeing if they can make my ideal avatar. Right now, my avatar is rocking a gothic, punk look, with a skull-embroidered dress and purple hair that is bunched on either side to look like big, fat roses.

Anyway. Today, I went to the childcare centre, and had my first day of work.

I helped children feed themselves, packed up mats, wiped down the nappy stations, mopped the floor, wiped down the sink and toilet seat, played with the children, talked and interacted with them, poured out milk and doled out spaghetti—-it was quite the hectic day.

And what is my verdict, after a day of such work? Well, let me tell you: it was alright. Yes. Just alright. In fact, the four hours passed as though I lived in a dream, and half the time, I do feel as though I exist in a kind of dreamland. It isn’t my most ideal job. Frankly speaking, the only job which would be ideal for me would be that of a writer, and I obviously can’t afford to have a job like that right now, especially since none of my work is capturing the attention of publishers.

Do I see myself in this career, long-term? Hard to say. I quite like the children, even though I have a ghastly fear of picking them up and dropping them accidentally, and they are, each and every one of them, unique and adorable. I enjoy feeding them, looking after them. I am still quite afraid of picking them up. I’m so afraid of it I have to mention it twice. What’s more, I haven’t yet had the opportunity to change a nappy yet, which mustn’t be the best part of the job, dealing with urine and faeces. Other than that, it’s pretty good; the co-workers are all very nice and lovely.

So far, everything is going good. Because I’m going to work, and being a productive citizen of society, my depression has lifted, and so has my self-esteem. I enjoy going to work. I really do. Let’s just hope it stays that way, and that the pressure of performing, of doing everything perfectly, doesn’t get out of hand. It’s a very practical, hands-on sort of job, and I’ve never been that practical of a person, so it’s a wonder I stumbled into this career in the first place.

I’ve been wanting to watch a movie called Mary and the Witch’s Flower lately. It’s by a group of artists that used to work for Studio Ghibli, and from the clips that I’ve seen of it, and the move trailer, the artwork is absolutely astonishing. As for my own art—my books—well, none of the publihers have replied, and I doubt they ever will, so I’m thinking of asking someone to draw a front cover for me, for the book, and then publishing the book online, like on Amazon, for people to buy. They’re two lovely little books I wrote myself, and treasure deeply, even if no-one else in the publishing industry seems to want them. I don’t mean to sound bitter; it’s just that writing has always been a dream of mine, and now, I’m finding myself having to settle for much less. I hope, when the time comes, I get some readers, some people who are willing to read my work. Who knows—maybe a publisher will stumble across it, and want to make it into an actual book.

It’s been a while since I made a last post. That’s because I’ve just been so busy with work. Childcare. Sigh. The children are gorgeously adorable, but sometimes, I really do doubt my ability to take care of them. I still have so much to learn. Well, here’s to hoping everything turns out for the best, and I don’t make a mistake at work that hurts anyone, or makes me want to curl up into a ball somewhere and never come out. The part of me that likes to catastrophize things really enjoys imagining terrible scenarios, and I hate that part of myself.

Inside This Dreamer’s Heart


It is exactly 9:23 pm, give or take a couple of seconds, and I am sitting on my bed, along in the light of my lamp, typing up my thoughts. I don’t feel particularly sad, nor particularly happy either; since discovering keeping busy is the only way to keep depression at bay, I have been doing just that. Instead of picking up a book and skimming through it in a lacklustre fashion, I have been actively reading, letting the sentences sink into my mind; when watching a Chinese TV show, instead of just focusing on the English subtitles, I’ve been trying to absorb the language.

Was that a particularly boring start to this post? I apologise. Sometimes, I forget that my life is far more interesting to myself than it is to other people. Isn’t it interesting, all of us living our lives? Isn’t interesting, the way we are all created the same way, born the same, and yet, in this world, of digitalised technology, fewer and fewer relationships are being formed, and fewer children being born in developed countries? Humanity is evolving, and I don’t know if in entirely a good way.

Look. You. Me. Staring at a computer screen, inside our own bedrooms, which have their unique aura and scent, living our lives, going to work or school, hanging out with friends, lovers, people, playing with cats and dogs. Our lives intersect, in so many ways, and sometimes, if I imagine hard enough, I can push myself into someone else’s life, feel their room, see the video game they are playing, the anime they are watching. I can be someone else, because we are all interconnected. We come from the same place, all of us, stitched out of the matter of the universe itself.

I don’t know where my life is going. I only recently realised keeping engaged in whatever task I am doing, be it listening to music or reading a book, only by being 100% engaged, every second of the day, can I keep the monster of depression at bay. It’s like lighting a fire to keep away the lions. Scary, isn’t it?

I’m a dying fairy. I can honestly say that. It’s as if this is a world full of iron, and I am being slowly burned away, from the inside out. Iron is anathema to faeries. Humanity keeps swimming around me, and I feel myself stranded on my own island, looking out, making no connection with anyone. I’m on this journey called life, and while I feel as though life is something quite momentous, I can’t seem to touch its grandeur, and instead am left with emptiness. I shy away from iron. I do. I cringe away from it, cry out in pain as iron pushes up against me, right against my skin. I am burned. I am dying. A tiny fairy, fluttering frantically like a butterfly, lost in a world of poison.

As I’m writing this, I am listening to an artist called Phildel. I can honestly say she is one of my favourite artists on this entire planet, especially her song Beside You, which is soft, lyrical and haunting. I don’t know how people find boyfriends, or lovers. I really don’t. I’m a lonely 20 year old, and whenever I step out into the world, I see a busy place of busy people too busy for relationships, too busy to stop and notice anyone, to speak and blush and flirt. No wonder the birth rate is declining. Relationships have always been foreign to me. And I’m afraid they always will be.

This blog has been a chronicle of my life. Every moment, every sensation and thought and feeling, I have poured into this blog, since 2013, when I first started it, out of the blue, just for fun, never thinking it would get any views, that people would care to read what I wrote. When I was full of dreams, and still lived in a relatively loving family. I haven’t seen my father for more than three years now, I think, since the divorce, and I’m afraid he is now in a place where I can never reach him. Do I care? Maybe not. Right now, I’m worried about how I will occupy my time for the next fifty or so years, at least until virtual reality kicks off and I can dive into escapism for good (only joking). The word “joking” frightens me sometimes, because it reminds me of “joker”, and I find jokers, particularly because of popular media, to be extremely disturbing and frightening. That’s how neurotic I am. Now I’m listening to Runaway by AURORA. I put Youtube on autoplay, so the words and the flowing notes of the song are washing over me, like watery silk.

It’s at times like this, quiet and silent, alone, lonely, that I wonder what life is all about. During my more depressed moments, I have wished to never have been born; I mean, life seems like a dream, half the time, and it passes so quickly. You cannot imagine how quickly the last 20 years have passed. Now I understand what 50 year olds mean, when they saw time passes so quickly. I don’t know what I want form life anymore. My dreams of getting published have melted into a puddle. I can’t—it isn’t—you can’t pick up water, you know? My dreams are gone. And so I am left with smaller dreams, bite-size pieces, more manageable, less sparkly and beautiful: to have enough money to buy food that I like, like fruit juice and hummus, to keep myself busy for the rest of my days, to not fall into the pit of depression. Eventually, I will post my book on my blog. Maybe i’ll even sell it on Amazon for a couple of dollars. Maybe only a few of you will buy it, but that doesn’t matter, because at least someone in the world read it and appreciated it. I love my book. And it makes me so sad that the publishers don’t love it at all.

Isn’t it funny, how different houses can have a different feel to them? I have moved many times in my life, and each time, each house had a different character to it. Even the walk home, to a particular house, had a different, unique feel to it. To be honest, I don’t know what went wrong. How did I go from a vivacious 15 year old to a depressed, unemployed (so far) 20 year old? It doesn’t make any sense. Nothing does. It’s as if everyone else around me in society is a robot, sometimes, and I’m the only real person. That honestly how I feel. Rushing from work, to home, to their friend’s place, to their boyfriend or girlfriend’s house. Always rushing. Paying for things. Buying. Working. Somewhere along the line, I got left behind.

Someone please come back for me.

The Best Way To Beat Depression


Depression is an ugly thing. I know. I’ve been there, more times than you know, that dark, midnight time of the soul, where monsters lurk with sharpened teeth and faries die underneath iron blades. It is never easy, and it is not a battle you can win easily, not without sacrificing a tooth or two, or a portion of your heart.

But there is one way to overcome depression, one tried and sure way which I have discovered over time, and which many other people have told me about, only, it wasn’t until I put it into practice did I realise how very useful it was: keeping yourself occupied. I know it sounds rather simple, and not the kind of solution you were asking for. Keeping myself occupied? Doing things, even though all depression wants me to do is lie in bed until I get nauseous and dizzying from staying in a supine position for so long?

Yes. The best way to overcome depression, to re-surface from the land of cluttered clockwork unscathed, with not so much as a single scratch on you, is to keep yourself busy every single second of every single minute of every single hour of the day. You mustn’t let yourself do nothing, not even for a second—you must be busy at all times, doing something, even if the task is as simple as typing a message to someone on your phone. The moment you stop doing, and lapse into passive activities, is the moment when depression likes to creep in, and ruin everything. It feeds off of lassitude and boredom.

This doesn’t mean that every “activity” out there is considered sufficient enough to be classified as an “occupation”. On Google, occupation is defined as “work”, or how one earns one’s living. There’s a secret here: why do you think so many of us who are unemployed, are depressed? That’s because we have nothing to occupy our days with, so we end up sinking deeper and deeper into the morass of our own thoughts. What we should be doing, instead, is trying to find a job, so that we can find ourselves productively engaged no matter what time of the day it is.

Passive activities like watching Youtube, or watching films. or even reading, are NOT good antidotes against depression, simply because, especially if you find reading an easy thing, they are occupations which require little effort. Effort is key. The task shouldn’t be so much effort that it causes you to over-stress yourself and have a mental breakdown, but it should be engaging enough to require your full attention at all times. That, my friends, is how you beat depression—simply by keeping busy, very busy, very productive, and entirely engaged with life.

I used to work in an age care centre, and even though I hated the job, and didn’t enjoy cleaning up faeces one bit, throughout the entirety of my experience at the age care centre, because I was busy and occupied, I wasn’t depressed. Not at all. It was only afterwards, when I had to wait half an hour for the bus, or during my break time, when I had to sit and eat and stare at a television screen, that the gloominess would begin to set in again.

I think I’ve stumbled across something quite marvelous, which many others before me have already discovered, yet is still new and fresh to me. Depression is beatable: not through medicine, not through therapy (although talking to your therapist is a productive activity, and probably why people feel “better” afterwards), but through simply lifestyle changes; namely, finding things to do. I don’t care what it is. It could be playing an intensive video game, doing the grocery shopping, playing Sudoku, writing a book, cooking, singing, working at a real job; never just laze around, watching Youtube videos, films, listening to audiobooks and reading books, like I have done before.

Keep busy, and it’ll keep you alive.


An INFP’s New Career


I’ll be starting my childcare traineeship soon, and words cannot describe how nervous I am about it. It’s not the prospect of dealing with co-workers that worries me—it’s that of dealing with children.

I’ve never been much of a children’s person myself, and yet, here I am, entering the career, and I am terrified of little babies crying in my arms and tiny children hating me. Honestly, I don’t know if it’s just because I am paranoid or neurotic, but I feel terribly hurt when I am rejected by children; it’s as if I’ve failed in this fundamental, human way. Once, I smiled at a baby, but my mouth might as well have twisted itself into a rictus, because the baby promptly started crying, and wailing for its mother. It’s incidences like this that make me feel less than optimistic about my future childcare career. But, anything must be better than age care, right?

Anyway. I will definitely keep you posted on how this new career goes; and perhaps, just maybe, I’ll find myself actually liking the job, and this can be invaluable for other INFPs, who are wondering what path to take in terms of their career direction. As an INFP, I can test-drive the situation for you, and report back whether or not I believe this or that career is suitable for other INFPs, since I am, and always have been, a very “strong” (by which I mean, I score very highly on Introversion, Intuition, Feeling and Perceiving) INFP. Just a thought.

Nothing much else has been happening in my life, apart from a good afternoon yesterday spent eating pizza and shopping with some of my friends. It was a nice afternoon. Some part of me, however, no matter what I do, feels somewhat unfulfilled. I always thought I would be published by now. I know it’s the same old spiel, but no matter how content or happy I feel, some part of me, deep inside, feels lost and afraid, and quite, frankly, bored with life, simply because this one, deepest, brightest dream of mine has never come true. I feel as though someone has punched a hole through my chest. Now, there’s just this emptiness, in the middle of my chest, a perfect circle, through which you can see to the other side of my body, the other side of the room, and nothing and no-one can put me right again, just like it was with Humpty Dumpty.

Humpty-dumpty sat on a wall. Humpty-Dumpty had a great fall. All the king’s horses and all the king’s men, couldn’t put Dumpty back together again. As a child—and those of you who live in and grew up in Australia will know this—I watched a lot of ABC children’s shows, from Bing and Bong, to Playschool, a show where they constantly sang, read stories and talked to stuffed toys. I’ve always wondered what it would be like to work on Playschool, to be this grown-up adult, singing and dancing, pretending, exactly as if they were a child. Do they ever get tired of it? As a childcare trainee, I will only be in charge of peripheral activities, I think, like changing nappies, supervising children, cutting up fruit, that sort of thing—I won’t actually be a “teacher” in the classroom, directing the students according to lesson plans, and that sort of thing.

Oh, I don’t know. How can I possibly describe my nerves? I don’t have any experience working with very young children. The youngest child I have ever worked with was 5 years old, and now, I will be working with 1-4 year olds, for the very first time. Have you noticed that babies, and very young children, have a sort of scent? A milky kind of scent? It’s not unpleasant, but I don’t find it particularly appealing either. All in all, I have no idea what I’m getting into, and just the thought of working in a childcare centre is enough to make my heart beat faster, and anxiety to start blossoming up inside of me like some kind of underwater monster.

The manager there is nice. Unfortunately, the other workers seemed a little more brusque, and perhaps stressed. I’m a bit worried about actually working with them. I’m very sensitive to negative emotions, and whenever I feel them wafting from someone, I just want to curl up into a ball, and hide. Either way, I guess I won’t know until I try it.

Short Love Story


“Excuse-me, I think you dropped this.”

I looked up. He wasn’t handsome, not by any stretch of the imagination. In fact, he was quite ordinary-looking. But there was a sparkle in his eyes which made something swoop in my stomach, and I, taking the book I had dropped from him, smiled hastily, said, “Thank you”, and tried to hurry on my way.

Too bad he didn’t let me. A little alarmed, he said, “Can I treat you to a cup of coffee?” Those warm, dark eyes sparkled with mirth. He seemed strangely comforting, like someone I should’ve known, perhaps for a long time. I liked the look of him, in his tan-coloured jacket and brown pants. He looked about my age, maybe a little older.

“Alright,” I said, hesitantly. “Let’s go and have a cup of coffee?”

“Yes,” he said, smiling. “Let’s.”

The waitress gave us our coffees, and he asked me if I wanted anything to drink, which I refused. I sat opposite this stranger, who somehow felt very familiar, and sipped my coffee, not knowing what to do or say. He had nice hands, and I liked the way he sat in his seat, as if he were the most comfortable, easy-going person in the world. “Tell me a bit about yourself,” he said, having not touched his coffee, his eyes on me.

“Well,” I said. “I’m a failed writer. I don’t write much anymore, because the well of inspiration has run dry, and one of my books recently got rejected by publishers. Other than that, I’m starting a childcare traineeship soon, which I’m extremely nervous about. I’m quite ordinary. Boring, really.”

“Oh, I don’t think you’re boring. I can tell you are a deep thinker, and feel things very deeply. You see the world in a certain way, don’t you? I bet even the flowers love you.”

I blushed. My, he certainly had a way with words. “I—I don’t think I’m that ethereal. But, yes, I do love flowers, and when I look out at the world, as I walk along, or while I’m on the bus, I do feel wistful, as if I’m searching for something, or someone…” I blushed again, feeling as though I had revealed too much about myself, aware that his eyes were still on me.

“Let’s go. Let’s go on an adventure.” Before I knew what was happening, he had grabbed my hand and was leading me out of the coffee shop. We went to a fairground, and went on rides. He bought me a stick of candy floss, which we shared, and as we walked, we talked, about everything and anything. I found out he was working in the finance industry, although he had always had a penchant for art, for painting and drawing. “I would love to read one of your books one day,” he said, linking his fingers through mine. “I’ll illustrate them for you, if you like.”

I smiled. “That would be nice.” I looked up at the sky. The sun was starting to set, and the lights of the fairground were coming on, the Ferris Wheel glimmering like a Christmas tree. For our last ride, we went on the Ferris Wheel, and it was there, high above the city, that he kissed me, quick and sweet. I looked out over the city, as our carriage slowly made its revolution up and over the world, and felt as if all was well.

How much do INFPs daydream?


While I can’t speak for all INFPs, the answer to this question is: a lot. I spend every waking moment where I’m not occupied with other tasks daydreaming, whether that be imagining possible scenarios inside my head, or envisioning futures in which I obtain the things I want to, a published book, a boyfriend, etc. Anything and everything, provided it isn’t graphic or perverted, is daydreamed about, from worlds beyond our ken to everyday situations. I do it on the bus, while I am walking home from the job agency, while I am in the shower, while I am cooking, and I would like nothing more than to crawl into these daydreams, and live inside them forever.

One of the problems that come with daydreaming is that you become even more dissatisfied with the way your life currently is. I know that the more I daydream, the more discontented I get, because whatever I’m daydreaming about is always a better version of the reality that I am experiencing. For example, walking home today, I imagined myself getting an email, telling me that I was to be published, and that the publishers wanted to meet me and discuss my book in person. The daydream became so real that when I snapped out of it, I half-expected to see the email in my notifications; and when I didn’t, the disappointment was so crushing I felt as if I might fold in half from the pain of it.

All in all, I do believe excessive daydreaming is unhealthy, and shouldn’t be encouraged. Instead, happiness or contentment with the way life actually or currently is leads to greater joy, because there are no expectations. But, on the other hand, as someone who daydreams a lot myself, it is very tempting to keep imagining scenarios, and never get anywhere in life in reality. In my daydreams, I am already a mother of two, with a wonderful husband, and a wonderful job, and several published books under my belt—and in reality, I am an unpublished 20 year old author, who has never dated anyone, let alone get married to someone. The contrast between the two is startling—and pathetic, if you want to view it in that light—-so instead of channeling one’s energies into daydreams, it’s better to use that same energy towards fulfilling your daydreams in real life.

For example, instead of daydreaming about the perfect moment in time, where I meet someone and our eyes meet and we connect, I could join a dating website, and actively try and find someone to partner up with. Instead of daydreaming about getting published, I could get cracking on the fourth book that I am writing. It’s a better use of one’s time, and of one’s energy, to try and bring your daydreams to fruition, instead of just wallowing in them.

So, in answer to this question, yes, INFPs do daydream a lot, but it would be better if we did less of it, and used our energies on more productive activities. While there’s nothing wrong with a bit of harmless daydreaming, when it becomes excessive, it can consume one’s life and make your current life seem boring, lacklustre and ugly in comparison. I’m going to try and channel my energies towards better activities, and I hope you do as well; here’s to greater joy, and contentment, living a life that may be far from our daydreams, but is lovely and beautiful in its own way.

When Your Dream Gets Shattered


When I woke up this morning, there was an email in my inbox, from one of the publishers I had sent my book to. And as the words reeled past my eyes “…unfortunately…have chosen not to…”, I felt as if a ton of bricks had landed on my head. My book not only had not been accepted, I had received a generic email saying that I hadn’t been published. After seeing this email on my phone, I deleted it, out of sheer anger at myself, rolled over and went back to sleep, sinking into a dark, depressed slumber.

So, my friends, it looks as though this publishing dream of mine is sinking down the drain. I think, in the end, I expected this, I really did; no part of me truly believed I would get published, no matter how much hope I held onto. I guess I’ll have to be happy with an ordinary life, spent doing ordinary things, working as a childcare worker, earning money, buying a house, dating, and the other daily, usual activities of life. I feel, as can be expected, like a dead woman walking; without getting published, some part of me will always be missing, and lacking, a puzzle piece that is never found.

So what’s next? The temptation is to do something drastic, like drape myself over my bed and not get up for several days, stuck in a depressive stupor. But I’m not going to do that. Without writing, without a published book, I am determined to still get up each day and keep living my life. After all, I have to keep on striving for others in life—to have fun, to go on holidays, to eat, to live. The strange thing is, while writing was something that made me feel incredibly happy and joyful at times, the stress of having to get it published wore it all away, and made me feel as though I was carrying a great weight. Now that I know I can’t completely succeed at it—not without trying for another few years, at least, and even then, there is no guarantee—I feel as though the great weight has been lifted. I don’t feel lighter, but I do feel relieved. In my opinion, my books are still gorgeous, and deserve to be published, but I might have to look into other avenues of publishing, such as self-publishing, or even, for a small donation, publishing my books on this blog. I don’t want to give my creative work entirely away for free—I spent many hours on it, after all—but I wouldn’t ask anyone to pay more than a couple of dollars for them, simply because I know many of my readers are in dire financial straits themselves.

Life feels curiously empty. I feel as though I am glass of milk, that has been completely emptied, all of that milky, rich goodness spilling out of me, gone forever. Nothing feels very real or true. My feet don’t touch the ground; they scrape, they float, as if buoyed by balloons. Even the words I type look nothing more like insects across the screen of my laptop. I don’t feel well. Perhaps I will never feel well again. I feel like screaming, or perhaps marching up to the publishers themselves and going through my book page by page, explaining its brilliance. Something crazy, drastic. Yet I know I will do none of those things. At the most, to comfort myself, I will buy a treat (and even that is unlikely, considering my budget) for myself, and eat it, alone and miserable.

I know! I feel as though an arm or leg has been amputated. Yep. And there’s that shadow-sensation people always talk about, the feeling that the limb is still there, that it can still feel pain and still move. That’s how I feel. But really, other than that, I’m completely fine. I still have a roof over my head, food in the fridge, activities to occupy my time (fingers crossed I get the childcare traineeship) and family and friends. Everything is perfectly fine.

So why are there tears trickling down my face?

20 Questions For an INFP

1. What’s your spirit animal?

My spirit animal would definitely be a bird, preferably a pigeon. I think pigeons are very INFP-like creatures;  all they do is strut about, thinking about their days, probably daydreaming behind their beady little eyes. Quiet and silent, minding their own business—that’s me!

2. What would you name a boat if you had one?

I would name my boat the Strange Dreamer, because…well, it’s rather self-explanatory, isn’t it? I think I’m a very odd person, and I am an inveterate daydreamer. It would be blue, with little comets and stars decorating its edges, and a beautiful, sci-fi mermaid on the front of it, with meteorites between her teeth.

3. Which fictional character would the most boring to meet in real life?

For that, I would have to say Snape, Professor Snape, or Severus Snape, from the Harry Potter series. That is because he is very boring, bland, and, apart from his tragic love story, quite the Debbie Downer when it comes to moods and conversations. Not only is he quite the vengeful person, but he is also bitter and oftentimes mean. So, yes, Snape would be my answer to that question.

4. If you had to change your name, what would your new name be, and why would you choose that name?

Cordelia Lin. If I had to choose another name, I would most definitely name myself Cordelia, from the Shakespearean play King Lear, a kind and faithful princess, and Lin, because that is an Asian last name I have always rather liked.

5. What’s the closest thing to real magic?

Magic, of course. What do you mean, it’s not real?

6. Who is the messiest person you know?


7. If you were given a one minute ad slot during Super Bowl that you couldn’t sell, what would you fill it with?

I would fill it with a broadcast for INFPs, telling other INFPs in the world, all over the world, that we are not alone, and that, even though we may feel as though we stick out wherever we go like a sore thumb on the inside and oftentimes feel solitary and sad, there are people out there who care and understand. A broadcast specifically for INFPs, that will confuse everyone who isn’t familiar with the Myer-Briggs personality type test, which, in my opinion, shouldn’t be too many people.

8. What kind of supervillain would you be?

Someone who decides INFPs should rule the world, instead of everyone else. Anarchy woud descend upon society, we would all become farmers who live off the land and gambol in fields of flowers, pollution would be over, shyness would become the new norm—that is, once I and a band of my most trusted INFPs take over civilisation and rule everyone and everything! Cats and libraries, of course, will be given special treatment, and deemed absolute necessities of society.

9. What type of fairy would you be?

One that grants three wishes. Yep, I’d be the type of fairy that takes over the wish-making business, making a lot of genies disgruntled, and write and make my own wishes for people, with just a wave of my wand and a bippity-boppity-boo!

10. What does you ideal man look like?

Someone who can understand my thoughts and feelings with just a glance. He isn’t someone who sweeps me off my feet, but a person who is a little strange and off-beat, and one none of the other girls notice except for myself, with unique but attractive features. Definitely someone who likes books, and thinks no-one ever notices him—but I do!

11. How do you overcome depression?

Badly. One of the best, temporary ways I’ve found to overcome depression is to concentrate on the blood flowing through my body, feeling it pulse in my chest, in my fingertips. This way, I am reminded of the magnificence that is life, and how much of a gift life is, this existence I have been given by the grand Creator.

12. What book or movie character is most similar to you?

I would have to say, the single most character who is most similar to me is actually a mix between Neville Longbottom and Luna Lovegood. Luna Lovegood for her strangeness, and Neville Longbottom for his introvertedness and general awkwardness. They’re both lovely, and two of my most favourite characters from the Harry Potter series.

13. What is your latest book about?

It’s a magical book, about a magical train, that visits magical stations, where the main character has magical adventures, and I wish some magical publisher would just magically want to snatch it up and magically have it published.

14. What is your greatest fear?

Never getting published, until the day I die.

15. If you were stuck on a deserted island, how would you react?

If I were stuck on a deserted island, I would probably sit on the sand somewhere and rock myself back and forth, trying to pretend the whole thing isn’t real. After that stops working, I would begin wandering around, trying to find food to eat and water to drink, meanwhile fantasizing about actual food, scenarios inside my head, and even better scenarios where I get rescued.

16. What would be your survival technique if you were in the Hunger Games?

Since I am an INFP, my survival technique if I were in the Hunger Games would be to climb up a tree and wait for death, for starvation, or just dig a hole behind a bush and hid in it and wait for death. If the gamemakers try to flush me out, instinct would take over and I would escape, but probably end up hiding again or dying at the hands of another tribute, because when it comes to physical contests and life-or-death situations, INFPs aren’t the greatest.

17. If you were stuck in a haunted house in a horror movie, would you be the first to die?

No. I would be the first to run screaming out of the place and sit in the car and wait outside and call the police and die nearly of fright when everyone else comes out of the building chased by demons and ghosts.

18. If you could build your own fantasy world, what would it be like?

Rather like one of Miyazaki’s movies, full of talking cats and tumbling cities and books the size of houses, with pink clouds and raindrops that taste of sugar and all things nice. Oh, and a flying castle; that would be very cool.

19. What  would be your ideal wedding ring and wedding?

What a very girly question! My ideal wedding ring would be a piece of knotted grass, with a tiny, jewel-like stone, preferably one my spouse found himself, beaded onto it, and it would be on the beach, with me dressed in a discount white dress, with the wind blowing in my hair and the sound of the ocean as my wedding music.

20. What would you do at a party?

Try mingling for a little while, then end up in the bathroom cubicle of the venue, scrolling through social media, writing, or reading a book, hoping no-one starts knocking on the bathroom door.


A Musing On This Dreamer’s Life


Alright, ladies and gentlemen, I have officially decided what I want to study next. I will be a completing a Diploma of Early Childhood Education and Care, which means I will be working in a childcare centre. Yesterday, because of an interview, I was able to visit a childcare centre, and I quite enjoyed the experience, so I have decided to make this my next career path. Fingers crossed it goes well.

I do enjoy the thought of working with babies, and children. The only thing I am really afraid of is not being able to be the “dependable” type of person a childcare educator should be. I am not exactly the most reliable person on the block—I can be a little scatterbrained. What’s more, I am also afraid of not being able to properly communicate with children and get them to do things; children can be rather scatterbrained themselves, and it can sometimes be hard to make communication pathways flow properly. Either way, I have my doubts, but anything must be better than age care, which was quite a disaster for me, mentally and physically.

I was brave enough to go to three interviews in the last month or so. It was quite an achievement, because I’m quite shy, and interviews are one of the most nerve-wracking experiences of one’s life, if not the most frightening. Just the thought of interviews makes me tremble in my boots. But I’m getting better at it. It helps if I remind myself the job isn’t the be all and end all; that there are other opportunities for me in the future. As for childcare, I will have to just make sure I have eyes on the back of my head, as I am supervising the children.

What else is new? My mood is still pretty low. I mean, I wake up in the morning, and feel so depressed sometimes I feel as though I might throw up. Today, I woke up, and literally felt as if a low, grey cloud was hanging over my head, dispelling gloom no matter where I went, and occasionally sending out fizzles of lightning. I feel better though, now that I am well into the day, and actually doing something productive, even if it just writing for my blog while I am at the job agency. Doing things makes me a happier person overall. Even though all I did these past few weeks is go to interviews, I think employment will be something that is very good for my mood, because I will be doing things, being productive, and I am glad I am going into work and study. Keeping busy is the best way to keep depression at bay; it’s the best way to keep yourself from slipping into any dark holes of negativity.

To be honest with you, I still feel as though I’m not suited to any particular job, except for writing, but in this life, unless you are lucky to have a great inheritance or some fantastically great skill or talent that translates into a life of wealth and talent, then you have to work, and childcare, so far, is the best option for me. I’m not the best person suited for the job, but it is the best job that is suited to me at the moment. My other option is business administration, and while that is a job I can certainly consider, there is a little too much telephone talking and customer interfacing for me to truly like the idea of the job. As far as I’m concerned, unless I get some work experience soon in the field of childcare, I am jumping into another pool with my eyes closed, not checking whether it’s the deep end or not.

As for relationships—I have a boyfriend! Just joking. Sorry. The chances of that happening are extremely low, as far as I’m concerned, just as low as the chance of me winning the lottery. I don’t know why, but relationships have never been something I’ve particularly felt any “kinship” towards. In other words, while I have felt drawn towards writing, and felt as though writing was a part of my life, relationships, while they are everywhere in popular culture, has always felt like some distant but lovely thing that only exists in the future for me, never the present. Let’s not even talk about children; while I would love to be a stay-at-home mum, that probably won’t happen, not for many years. It would be nice, though, to have someone nearby, to cuddle and kiss, to keep yourself warm at night. Nice, but not possible. Uh-uh; it’s not going to happen.

Overall, since there are only 2 months left before time expires and I know I will not be published, and no publishers have contacted me yet, my dreams of becoming a published writer are floating further and further away. I don’t think I’ll ever be published. There. I said it. I don’t think it will happen. What will happen? I’ll study for 2 years, become a Childcare Educator, live my life, work, play with children, spend my days happily involved in my job, go online and start dating, find a husband, have children, buy a house and settle down? Without ever getting published? The thought makes me heart constrict, but, in the end, I do believe I can be happy without getting published, if all the other accoutrements of life are gained, like a job and permanent housing. It will be the same, old life as everyone else’s, but as someone who feels as though the same, old life is very difficult, if not impossible, to obtain, it would be quite good.