6 More Life Tips For INFPs

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I wrote a previous post, which I will link HERE where I wrote 12 Life Tips for INFPs for a Patron of mine on Patreon (you can find my Patreon at http://www.patreon.com/dreamerrambling) and today, after a while spent working at my new childcare job, and delving into the world of online dating, I have grown as a person and learned some new things along the way which might help some other INFPs, and decided to make a Part 2 of the same post, titled “6 More Life Tips For INFPs”. Online dating, you might say? Yes. In fact, tomorrow, I’m meeting someone in person who I met online, through a dating app. He reads my blog, and he’s a writer and INFP himself, too. I’ll probably write another post all about that—but, for the meantime, let’s get into this post.

1. Social anxiety is all in your head, and doesn’t exist.

For a while in highschool, I suffered from social anxiety. It came out of the blue, and I believe it was a result of childhood trauma, but, either way, I suddenly found myself feeling nervous about talking to people, or even passing by people on the street. I know many INFPs can suffer from this problem, so my advice is, give it some time, let yourself acclimatise to social situations, keep leaving the house and putting yourself out there, and, eventually, you’ll realise it was all in your head, all along, and that other people don’t judge you as much as you think they do. I’ve been free of social anxiety for a while now, and this tip really helped me to overcome it two years ago. Just be yourself, put yourself out there, and don’t think too much. Let the words flow out of your mouth when you talk to people. You’ll get there.

2. You have to actively find your Prince Charming or Princess—and hey, maybe that’s something that exists in your head, too.

INFPs can sometimes have a very idealistic view of what their future partner might be, when, in reality, humans are flawed, not magical beings ready to fix all your problems. What’s more, like the passive creatures we can sometimes be, occasionally we might even find ourselves “wishing on stars”, and hoping for someone to just magically waltz into our lives and whisk us away on a romantic adventure. Unfortunately, the chances of that happening are very low. As I’ve matured, I’ve come to realise you have to get out there and look for someone to fall in love with. For example, I’ve recently started talking to someone online, and I like him and he’s really nice. I would have never have met him and talked to him if I hadn’t actively opened up a dating app account, put up pictures on my profile, then spent the time liking the profiles of other members on the site. You might want to rethink how you view love and romance altogether if you are still just waiting for it to fall in your lap: go join a church, join a group at your university, join a dating site, anything—take your destiny into your own hands.

3. Living in your car isn’t an option, and capitalism exists for a reason.

Sometimes, INFPs can have issues with the whole “earning a living” concept. Actually, scrap that: we can positively lament over the injustice of having to earn a living, when all we really want to do is write books and read and sing and dance and daydream and philosophise all day long, even though none of those activities bring in a single cent of income most of the time. Once upon a time, I was so against the idea of earning a living, because I couldn’t fathom doing anything except the activities mentioned above, that I even debated, without much hope, the thought of living out of one’s car. Obviously it wasn’t a viable option, and the reasons are also obvious: having a home, a roof over one’s head, is one of the most important things there is about life. You need it. We need capitalism in order for society to function. Otherwise, people wouldn’t work, wouldn’t have routines and purpose to their lives, and no-one would get their needs met. Sometimes, we need to mature, and realize that we, even us INFPs, need to follow the rules of this world, and live according to its paradigms.

4. Work doesn’t always have to be fun.

There’s a reason us INFPs, especially when we are younger, like the idea of just living off of our art and our dreams, even if it doesn’t pay the bills: it’s because art, like writing, is often fun, and what’s more, we sometimes only do it when we want to do it, rather than disciplining ourselves to write when we do not want to. But what I have discovered is that, while work can be rewarding, and it can be fun and very enjoyable, it isn’t necessarily fun and enjoyable all the time. And that’s okay. That’s just the nature of work. If it wasn’t that way, and it was just inherently fun, then there wouldn’t be a reason for someone to pay you to do it, because people would want to do it for free in the first place.

5. Sometimes, dreams don’t come true, and as painful as it may be, you may have to accept that they never will.

It’s a bitter pill to swallow, but the truth is, no matter how many of us want to become publishers authors or famous artists, the chances of that happening are very low. For the past three years, I have been painstakingly working on books for children, only to be dealt rejection after rejection from publishers. While it is certainly possible I might get published in the future, in my heart, I know that it is very unlikely, especially since I’ve been rejected so many times. I know, just maybe, that my book isn’t good enough to be published, that I don’t have enough talent or ability to make it in the publishing industry. Since it’s a dream of mine that I have nursed since I was five years old, this is something that will take me years to recover from, and that’s alright. It’s okay. Part of growing up is realising that you don’t always get what you want, even if you try your absolute hardest. It’s all part of reconciling your ideals with reality, something us INFPs find difficult to do.

6. You are a beautiful person, and you should never forget that.

INFPs can sometimes suffer from low self-esteem. We’re a little different from most people, in that we’re quiet, and thoughtful, and brimming with words and creative ideas. It can be a little difficult for us to form friendships with the right people, and we often found ourselves feeling isolated amongst certain groups of individuals. But you should never forget that we are beautiful, and unique, and different, and special, even if we never achieve anything mind-blowingly amazing, or look like we just stepped off the catwalk, or have a scintillating personality. As long as you stay true to yourself, and who you are, then the path before you is laid true, and you can do no wrong.

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An INFP’s Fake Boyfriend

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What? Oh. Erm. Suuure. I have a boyfriend. His name is—is Tim. Tim…um. Tim Um. Yes. Strange last name, I suppose, but that shouldn’t be a deal breaker now, should it?

What does he do? Oh. He does lots of things. Yes. Lots. Erm. He works as a plumber. Yes. Likes to get into the guts of plumbing, he does, fix things up. You know what that’s like, when the urge comes. And he loves to go fishing on the weekends.

See, Tim and I, we’ve been dating for over a year now, only I never told you, because I was afraid—I mean, I am afraid, that he is a little on the shy side. Yes, you wouldn’t expect it, not from a great, big burly plumber, but he’s rather timid, really, which is why I like him, I suppose. We met at a fish shop. Yes. I was just standing in line, minding my own business, thinking about whether I should get tomato sauce with my chips, when suddenly, he came forward, and asked me if I had any change. And I told him I didn’t, of course, because I was so flustered and he was a stranger, but then he went on to say that he didn’t really need any change, he just needed an excuse to talk to the beautiful lady in front of him in line. Yes! It was love at first sight, of course, and terribly romantic.

As for our future, we’ve got it all laid out. We’re going to buy a small Victorian house somewhere in the southern suburbs of Australia, and we’re going to have two kids, one boy, one girl. His personality? Oh, he has a wonderful personality of course, absolutely perfect. He’s very mild-mannered, never shouts, is never aggressive, if you know what I mean, and he loves poetry, and he loves to draw and write, and dance. It really is quite perfect.

You know, he’s taking me on a date to Paris this year. Yep, Paris. Plumbers might do dirty work, but they earn quite enough to live by, and together, we’re going to see the Eiffel tower, enjoy the sights, drink hot chocolate in front of this little cafes, and buy baguettes in those paper bags and ride on bicycles with the baguettes in the baskets and nibble on cheese just like real French people. It will be absolutely marvellous. Janice and John. That’s what we’re going to name our kids. Yes. No, absolutely not, wouldn’t dream of it—they’ll get a wholesome education, the both of them, at a nice private school. Yes. Good-looking? My dear, good-looking doesn’t even cover it. He’s got dark hair, beautiful dark eyes, very strong, too, because of all the plumbing he does, and when he smiles, the edges of his eyes crinkle just so, which makes him suddenly look very shy and boyish. He’s simply marvellous and perfect, John. Oh! Silly me! I meant Tim. Yes. Tim is perfect. Little ol’ Timothy. My Timothy. All mine.

And I haven’t even told you about the gift he got me last summer. It was a seashell ring. It was absolutely gorgeous. I said to him, I said, “I don’t want anything flashy, you understand, all those sparkly rocks are just a big waste of money” so he ended up getting me a seashell ring! It’s a tiny little seashell, attached to a silver band, and absolutely gorgeous. I left it at home, so you can’t see it, but let me tell you, it was quite the thoughtful gift. As for our deep, long conversations together—why, they get deeper than you would believe. Since he is a poet—oh, well, poetry is his hobby, you see, not his actual job, he’s a plumber by day, poet by night—he thinks very deeply about things, and there’s so much he knows, so much wisdom and light and laughter and shiny, pearlescent—

When can you meet him?

Oh.

Is Childcare A Good Career for INFPs?

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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

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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. The title of the books are “The Dragon Train” and “The Hive”, and 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

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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

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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

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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

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“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?

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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

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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?