A Genuine Insight Into This Dreamer’s Existence


It’s exactly 10:39 at night, and I am sitting in my room, alone, typing on my laptop. I just got back from an evening with church friends, and, while I didn’t know quite a few of them, I did end up having a nice time, playing board games and eating food. I didn’t feel like I quite fit in with any of them. As someone who is going through a particularly miserable patch of their life, surrounded by happy people, with jobs and happy lives, I couldn’t feeling, internally, as though I was sticking out like a sore thumb.

I wonder what it would be like if you met me in real life. I started thinking about this, ever since I started an Instagram account and became active on Twitter again. You can follow me on Instagram HERE, and on Twitter HERE. I mean, I’m a very introverted sort of person, very internal, all of my thoughts and feelings are wrapped up inside my brain, instead of expressed outwardly. Perhaps, in real life, I might come across as odd or strange, or quite average, the kind of person that blends, unnoticeable, in with the crowd. Inside, however, there is quite a different story: inside, within me, I am a hurricane of feeling, of misery and poetry, stardust and sunkisses.

Disappointment forms the focus of my life right now. I am utterly disappointed that none of my books have become published. In fact, disappointment isn’t even a strong enough word for it. I feel as though I am dragging with misery with every step I take, leaving behind sludgy, footprints of sadness on the ground behind me. My entire body sags. Not being published is like not being able to breathe. I feel as though I was never born, and never lived. My entire life is not just missing a single jigsaw piece: all the jigsaw pieces have been scattered into the wilderness, never to be see again.

I am exhausted, but I must keep writing, for that is the only thing that is keeping me sane at the moment. I was made for nothing else other than this dream of writing. I know nothing else, and exist nowhere else. Whatever I do for the rest of my life, be it childcare, or teaching, or whatever it is, I just know that it will all pale in comparison to the prospect of getting published, of seeing my book on shelves, of holding my book in my hands. I can barely breathe from the misery of it.

Perhaps I come across as too dramatic. After all, there are many other avenues which you can take to publish your book, such as self-publishing, or distributing books for a price in public. Other ways. But I don’t want the other ways. I want the official path, the one and only. If I could just thrust my book beneath the noses of my readers, and let them see the pure artistry and magic written across their pages—if I could just make one publisher see inside my mind when I write my books—

But it’s all for naught. Lately, I have decided to Instagram and Tweet as often as possible. I don’t know why exactly I’m doing it. I suppose, I want to be of more help to others in this world. I think, if I write a tweet about my misery, and someone else in the world somewhere reads it, then they might feel comforted. If they see a photograph of my laptop, or my doorknob, with a certain caption, they might feel less alone, less—-something. Less afraid. I don’t know. I want to provide comfort to people, in this often dark and lonely world. If I can do that with my life, then I think I can die happily, if not satisfactorily.

And that’s the thing. Oh my, a headache is beginning to build. I better stop writing soon. If I die without ever getting properly published, officially published—why, I think I might actually die with a tear trickling down my face. Eventually, I will self-publish, if this thing never works out, and advertise my book on this blog. I’ll sell the books for only a couple of dollars, because I know some of my readers are struggling financially, too, just like me. And perhaps people will respond, and tell me how much they like the books—and that, I think, will have to be enough. I can’t see anything more than that happening.

It’s quiet. It’s night. 16 minutes have passed. I have written around 800 words. Outside, cars are passing by on the street, making soft swooshing sounds. I am currently reading a book called Shopaholic Ties the Knot. The woman who writes this book is very blessed. I do not hate her; my heart does not hold such vindictiveness. Instead, I stare at her books with a gentle wistfulness, with a tinge of envy; she is married, with beautiful children, and has a long and steady publishing career. Her life is everything I have ever wished for for myself. Meanwhile, the days pass in a steady blur, of boredom and stress, job searching and interviews. I don’t know where I am going, and life is turning into a dull ache of pain. It isn’t excruciating: it’s just always there, pulsing, against me, against every part of me.

I reach out to God. I do. I reach out to Him. And tonight, I will go to sleep, thinking of nothing because there is nothing to think, my heart empty of dreams because it isn’t shattered or broken, it no longer exists, and I wade, sobbing quietly, into a future where I don’t belong.


15 Things An INFP Can Do When Extremely Depressed


Life, for INFPs, is an unending mystery, the world a place forever falling short of our fantasy and ideals, and our society filled with unimaginative and selfish people: it’s no wonder we are a personality type that commonly suffers from mental illness, such as depression and anxiety. And, since I am in the throes of depression at this present moment in time, I think this is the perfect post for me to write. So, here are things an INFP can do when extremely depressed, to help them get out of their depression.

1. Stay around animals.

INFPs have a natural kinship with animals, particularly quiet ones like cats, and it makes sense to spend time around them when we are feeling down. Something about stroking their fragile, gentle bodies makes us feel calm, and protective: it makes us, in short, feel better about ourselves, and about the world in general.

2. Remember, if homelessness is what you are afraid of—and I certainly am—perhaps it would be good to step back and gain some perspective.

Maybe you’re not going to be homeless any time soon. If you are young, there are youth services out there for those aged 16-25, specially designed to help young men and women get off the streets. What’s more, if you live in a developed country, even if you become homeless, it is unlikely you’ll be left to starve: more likely, there would be services out there to help you, and you can always try leaning on relatives and friends for help, if needed.

3. Take a shower.

INFPs, more than any other type, are connected with nature. It is a fact. There is something about nature that soothes me beyond belief: it is because we understand, on an intrinsic level, that we are connected to all that exists (I mean, the living world, not plastic and suchlike), and that is something that is very comforting and soothing. So, take a warm shower—INFPs do not like cold showers; we might as well be tortured—and embrace the feeling of being with nature, deluged in a magical liquid created by God, for you to drink, and bathe in, full of healing and other wonderful properties.

4. Spend time around other people.

When you are depressed, the worst thing you can do is spend time alone, by yourself, in your room—especially if you spend it in bed, unproductive, and unhappy. Your bedroom turns into a small, enclosed space filled with the fug of misery, and nothing good happens. Instead, try meeting up with friends, or leaving your room to spend time with family members. Make sure you go out and see your psychologist. Do things that involve being around and talking to other people; trust me, it’ll take your mind off things.

5. Listen to nostalgic music.

There’s nothing like nostalgia to cheer an INFP up. We live and breathe nostalgia. I wouldn’t recommend watching nostalgic movies—I tried that, and got bored and depressed halfway through because they were no longer sparkling and wonderful the way they were when I was a kid—but music, especially songs, since they are short and sweet, can tap into that part of your brain that evokes nostalgia, and make you feel like life is worth living, just for a little bit longer.

6. Make sure you keep indulging in your hobbies.

Whether it is writing blog posts, or books, or short stories, or drawing or painting, or even dancing, whatever it is, keep doing it. Even if you’re depressed enough to want to collapse right on your face, as I was this morning, keep writing, keep doing things. This will boost your mood like nothing else, as staying productive, no matter how little, even when you feel like doing absolutely nothing and just turning into a vegetable, is one of the best ways to life the veil of depression, just a little.

7. Turn to God, or the universe.

In times like this, it’s time to go to drastic measures. There are moments at night, deep in the middle of the night, where I wake up and find myself so completely consumed with misery I feel as though my entire body has turned into a black shadow. But it doesn’t matter if you feel yourself connected to something greater than yourself, someone who can look after you, watch over you, and take care of you. Reach out to the greater force or higher being you believe in, in these times of crisis, and they just might help you pull through.

8. Start a blog.

If you are an INFP with an ounce of writing talent—in other words, if you have the ability to string words into coherent sentences—then I recommend you start a blog, and use it to help other people by talking about your feelings. Starting a blog was one of the best things I ever did for my mental health. Not only do I receive wonderful comments from people, who tell me my posts helped them, or give me advice, there’s the cathartic feeling of having expressed yourself, through words, to other people, who understand, and who care, just like you do. So, start a blog, if you can—you’ll thank me for it.

9. Maybe there are other chances in life.

Okay, so, if you’ve been following my blog recently, you’ll know that one of the reasons I am so miserably depressed is because I haven’t been published yet. But in life, maybe it’s good to remember there are other chances. Maybe I’ll find another idea and write an even better book. Maybe the person who turned you down will turn out to be a horrible person, and you were better off without them. Maybe your job searching, leading to all those closed doors, will eventually lead you to the perfect door, that’s just right for you. Maybe if this publisher doesn’t accept my book, another one will. Maybe. Just remember, there’s always a “maybe”.

10. You don’t know what the future is like.

This is a bit of advice I am still struggling to come to terms with and put in practice, but the thing is, you don’t know what the future is like. Think about it. A year ago, did you think you’d be where you are now? No. What about two years ago, three years, or even five or ten? Exactly. The future is ever-changing, ever-shifting, and you never know where it will take you. Eventually, you will have to come to terms with the fact that you cannot predict the future, and for someone with depression, that is actually a GOOD thing, because it means you don’t actually know whether the future will be negative or positive. Instead of seeing the future looming ahead of you like this fathomless black tunnel, see it as something which is full of both shadows and light. And maybe, just maybe, the light will win out, in your future.

11. Eat something tasty.

This is only a temporary solution, but sometimes, you will be in the blackest of black moods, and the only way you can get yourself out of it is if you do something drastic, like stuff your face with a bar of chocolate, or cook some nice, tasty fish, fry it up, and eat it all by yourself. Do not feel any self-disgust for completing such a task, even though you will be tempted to as you are gorging by yourself, if only for a couple of seconds: instead, view it as part of your own self-care program, where you give yourself a tasty treat, just for existing and getting through the day.

12. Always try to do things, even if you don’t like them.

Yesterday, I lay on my bed for four hours straight, doing absolutely nothing. It was the worst move I could ever make, because when I got up from that bed, dishevelled and half-asleep, I felt more pessimistic and depressed about my future than I could possibly be. So, instead, do small tasks that help you move towards your goals in life. For me, I want to get a job, so, instead of lying in bed depressed, I’ve been applying for some jobs requiring no experience online when I have the strength and energy to do so. It hasn’t been easy—there are so many jobs out there I am not qualified for—but there are a couple here and there, which I do apply for. Maybe—actually, most likely—I will not get a call back from any of them, but still, I was spending my time doing something. I have also been trying to figure out my career path, by taking career tests and reading up on a “A day in my life” posts from people in certain jobs, like childcare workers, just to get a feel of whether I can go into a certain industry or not.

13. Leave the house.

Do not stay in the house all day, depressed and with nothing to do. Why? Because that is how suicides happen. A combination of extreme boredom and depression leads to a nasty and toxic kind of mental state. Instead, go outside. Do not go for walks by yourself, or do any solitary activities. Go to the library, or a park, where you will be absolutely surrounded by people. For me, I go to a job agency three times a week, four if I am able to, in order to get out of bed and out of the house, and be around other people. Sure, I may not always enjoy their company, and all I do when I get there is search for jobs, but it is far more distracting and therefore useful than spending the day alone in the house.

14. Be kind to yourself.

I have been depressed for a total of two months. Ever since I hit “Send” and sent out my books to publishers, and haven’t received a single reply, and then realised both the books were crap and would never be published, not in a million years, I have sunk into one of the worst depressions of my entire life. And up until a few days ago, where I watched a Youtube video on self-care or something, I was treating myself terribly. I was berating myself, punishing myself, hating myself, and overall treating myself like a petulant child that wasn’t living up to a parent’s expectations. It’s the wrong thing to do. In fact, it’s a counterproductive thing to do, because doing these things only makes the depression worse. Instead, take a deep breath, relax, and treat yourself like a precious child. Now, this doesn’t mean going out there and buying yourself a $60 pair of shoes: instead, it means you sit still, listen to yourself, think of yourself using kind words, think of your future in positive terms, and treat yourself in a nice and good manner, letting yourself relax when necessary, taking a break when needed, treating yourself to something if it is within reason, like a $2 packet of crisps.

15. Know that there are people out there who care about you and understand what you are going through.

If you are going through depression right now, I understand and I care about you. I know how hard it is. I know suicide seems like the easy, even logical way out. Do not do it. It will be such a shame to lose a wonderful person such as yourself, and your family members and friends will be pierced to the core and scarred for as long as they breathe. Trust me. When you are depressed, and the rest of the world keeps moving on, people go to work, have babies, get married, and live wonderful, happy little lives of success and joy, it can feel like no-one cares, and you are all alone. But you are not. You have me, who spent a good half an hour writing up this post so I could help others in the same situation I am in. You have your family members and friends. You have other people in your suburb, your city, your country and in the world who care. Through the internet, especially forums, you can reach out to strangers, who will in turn give you advice and care for you. Remember: you are never alone.

A Thunderstormy Night


Shell-shocked. That’s a little of how I feel. Here I am, sitting alone in my room, with my legs cross-legged on my bed, Taylor Swift’s new song, Gorgeous playing in the background, two books sent off to publishers, and life couldn’t be any more worse. Put it that way, I sound like a spoilt brat.

But that has no bearing on the fact that I am still completely confused, still completely depressed. I have lost faith in myself, and in life, too. Life was meant to be magical. As a child, it was. It is no longer. And I don’t know what to do.

I wish I could reach for something, or someone, who would assure me, and give me evidence, that everything would be “alright”. That I wouldn’t become homeless, or do not face a future of unemployment and boredom. That this is a kind world, filled with kind people, and animals, and books, and delight. But that’s not true. This is a cold world, filled with selfish people, and blood and murder, failure and despair. At least, that’s how it seems to me at the moment.

I can’t even seem to muster up the strength to write anymore, and that has been more devastating than anything else. Writing was meant to be my passion, my one true talent, and, now, depression, like some ugly monster, has utterly swallowed it and taken over. I am nothing but a walking home for this beast, this parasite, known as “depression”, as “the blues”, or, for those who are a fan of Breakfast at Tiffany’s, the “mean reds”. Even God, it feels, has forsaken me; once a reassuring presence, He seems to have utterly evaporated from my life. When I reach out to Him, I can still hear Him, but He isn’t speaking any words of comfort that can soothe me.

Lately, I am starting to become addicted to chocolate. My mother’s client’s gifted her with a hexagonal bottle of Cadbury’s chocolate-coated almonds, and I have been unable to stay away from them since. They are terrible for me, I know, even if they do have an almond centre, but since I am depressed, I found myself reaching out for them, just for a little sweetness in my life.

I am thinking of doing a Foundations Course and returning to university, to studies. Perhaps from there I can even study to become a Primary School Teacher. It has always been a dream of mine, to stand as an Asian-Australian teacher in a classroom, and teach to a room of Australian students. But of course, these are all still works in progress. I am thinking of applying soon, perhaps next week. Then we’ll see what happens from there.

One thing I do know is, I most definitely do not want to study childcare. It’s not something I’m suited to, and I doubt I ever will. Primary school teaching is a career that can offer me many benefits, and I will have the ability to turn my tutoring skills, gleaned from experience in the past, to good use. I think, if given enough practise, I could turn into a patient, kind and caring teacher, one who leads students through difficult questions, and gets them through exams. It’s definitely something I am considering, and the one, single ray of sunshine or hope in my life right now.

I hope you are all doing better than me, dear dreamers. I hope you have good jobs, good partners, and, if not, I hope you are on your way towards gaining them ( I didn’t want to use the word “obtaining”, because jobs and partners aren’t pieces of a game you get by playing well in life; in my opinion, they come to you when you work hard, and are an honest and authentic person). I’ll be OK, don’t you worry about me: I am tougher than I look, and have even survived one evening of homelessness before, when I was kicked out of the house.

Oh, who am I kidding? I would never survive homelessness if it actually occurred. Well, here’s to new beginnings. To fresh hopes. Here’s to making a start on things, to going to places we haven’t been before. To teaching, and writing, and living the dream. I say this as my face twists itself into a rictus of a smile, and the sounds of the marching dead trample above my head.

An Unhappy Musing—Oh Dear


Honestly, the titles of my blog recently could possibly form a new series known as “Very Blue” or “A Depressed INFP.” Well, I was scrolling through Youtube one day, when I came upon an announcement, about this random stranger, in some corner of the globe, getting married. Her name was Tanya, and I don’t know her, and she doesn’t know me, yet for some reason, I felt an overwhelming sweep of despair, at the thought of this stranger getting married, and living a happy life, with two children in the future, and a good job, and so on.

Don’t get me wrong: it’s not like I don’t want other people to have happy lives. That would be very cruel and horrible of me. No, it’s not that. I just felt sad about it, because those kinds of happy lives are the kind I thought my life would one day turn into. Now, at 20 years old, nothing seems to be on the horizon, not marriage, not a job, not children, not published books, nothing. At the thought of this woman, probably in her twenties, getting married, and living a wonderful life, surrounded by friends, I suddenly felt a wave of loneliness and self-pity, so strong I was choked by it.

You know, when I was a child, I always assumed adulthood, like childhood, would just fall into my lap. A job. A house. A partner. These things would just come, like candy falling out of the sky, just like the way I was born with a mother and father, or that, when I was little, I had a home to live in and food in the fridge. I took it for granted, those things, and so, when I grew up, I took it for granted that the normal, everyday milestones of adulthood would also just magically come my way. Obviously, some work would be involved, but, in the end, everything would be alright, and I would get to ride off into the sunset, happy and content, just like everyone else.

Unfortunately, it hasn’t quite turned out like that. For one thing, I didn’t finish Year 12, which meant the possibility of university was severed. For another, I have no idea what to study or what career to specialise in—in terms of finding a career, I am utterly lost. The more I think about it, the more I feel it is a problem of fit. What do I mean by that? Simple. I can’t fit into society! I am this extremely introverted, daydreamy, awkward and terribly self-conscious young woman, who bundles her way through life, and is not very much good at anything, except her one talent, writing, and even that is average at best (or, at least, in her eyes). A day or so ago, I wrote a short story about the Zodiac signs, and I was considering publishing it on this blog. But I felt so bad about it, so riddled with self-doubt as to whether it was a good story or not, that I didn’t, and ended up sending it to a place called Open Pen instead, a publishing company, hoping they’d snatch it up, even though I have no hope of them doing so and it’d have been better if I’d just posted it on my blog in the first place. Did that sentence even make any sense? I don’t think it did: it was much too garbled. I am much too garbled.

Dear dreamers, I am so lost in life I feel as though I might throw up because of it. Strange as it might sound, I believe depression has a genuine, physical, negative effect on the body; ever since becoming depressed, I’ve been getting aches and pains in odd places, and getting dizzy, even though I am young and meant to be full of health. My sleep cycle is alright, and I have no loss of appetite, but it is as if a perpetual cloud of greyness hangs around my head. This entire business of having to have a job to earn a living is beginning to do my head in. “I’m not good at anything!” I want to scream. “All I’m suited to is writing short stories, children’s books, and blog posts, and never gaining any recognition for doing so.”

My greatest fear is not homelessness anymore, it is boredom, because it is impossible to write all day long, and, once you become unemployed, you suddenly realise how many hours there are in a day, and how much effort it takes to fill them. The thought of getting a boyfriend, of doing anything else, apart from trying to get through each day without feeling too depressed, is too much for me at the moment. If I was motivated, I would join dating sites—but I’m not. Who would want to date an unemployed, twenty-year old writer, penniless and introverted beyond belief?

I am waiting for something. I don’t know what. The other day, my mum bought me some watermelon, and I spent ten minutes stuffing my face with slices of it before I realised I hadn’t tasted any of it. I am eating, I am sleeping, I am breathing, but I am doing all of it on autopilot, while my eyes remain glazed over, their expression listless. Suicide is out of the question: I couldn’t do it to my family, or have the courage to go through with it. Even in these respects, I sometimes feel like a coward. I am very afraid of physical pain: once, when I overdosed on Panadol pills ( I can’t believe I didn’t mention this yet in a blog post; remind me to), I was even afraid of the discomfort of an IV drip, as the little plastic tube directly entered my vein and chafed against the inner wall of my vein, creating great pain, so I am definitely not going through with that again.

It’s not all doom and gloom, my dreamers, even though I might appear to be that way. I mean, I still have a roof over my head, and food in the fridge, courtesy of my family. I still have my writing, and I still have hope, however small. I am just so discontented with the reality of life. I am panting with the desperation of wanting to rip it away, the surface of reality, to reveal what’s truly behind it: shining stars, and delight, and a world where I belong.

When Depression Hits


I don’t want this blog to dissolve into a cesspool of moaning and groaning, but, to be honest, life isn’t going well at the moment, and I feel like writing is the only way I can keep sane, for the meanwhile. In fact, I don’t even know what I am writing right now, I am nearly going insane because of my misery. And the thing is, I don’t know what, exactly, I’m so miserable about.

Well, apart from the fact that I’ll never get published, that I’m suited to no jobs, and that, in the near future, it’s likely I, a bright and intelligent young woman, shall be homeless—why yes, I say, with a hysterical laugh, I don’t know why I’m miserable at all! No idea!

I actually have no idea what I’m writing about. This blog, since its birth, has been a raw and honest view of my life, and I have never filtered any of my thoughts and feelings. And right now, as of right now, right now, ladies and gentlemen, I feel as though I might go insane because of misery. Insane. Actually insane.

I’m so depressed I am literally going crazy. None of my writing is going well, and I doubt any of it will ever get published, its all pure—well, crap. I don’t see myself in any job in the future, not childcare, not as a library technician, nothing, zilch, nada. In fact, in this post, I am just repeating myself. Soon, in the near future, I am certain you will see a post titled, “I am now currently homeless” or something equally miserable. Gosh, aren’t I a ray of sunshine?

For the last couple of seconds, I scrolled up and down on my page repeatedly, a useless motion borne out of pain and anxiety. What do I do with my life? What is life about? Sometimes, I wish I had never been born. As of late, everyday I have been wishing I had never been born. If I had never been born, then I would never have become conscious, and if I had never become conscious, I wouldn’t have had the stupid pipe-dream of becoming a successful writer, and be feeling any of this misery in the first place. So, really, it’s my mother and father’s fault, for creating me in the first place.

I’m really not suited to any job except writing. Introversion isn’t even a strong enough word for how much I like to spend time by myself. Other people exhaust me, they really do. I just don’l like the outside world much; I much prefer the world inside my head, preferably one created by myself. However, I do have friends, and I do enjoy hanging out with them, and I don’t mind talking to psychologists. It’s the social aspect of jobs I find tiring, the obligatory greetings and smiles, the small talk that makes me want to squirm on the inside, the constant pressure to maintain a façade so no-one sees the real you underneath while you are working. The social pressure of having a job is the worst, possible thing, it really is.

I am stuck in a nightmare. This is what happens when I have depression. It feels like you are stuck in a never-ending nightmare, with sleep being the only relief. These days, I wake up and almost feel the urge to cry, because my mind, always trying to be helpful, provides me with such beautiful, lovely dreams, only for them to evaporate the moment I become fully conscious. It sucks. It really, really sucks—and you know things are bad, when I use a word like “sucks”, something which I try to avoid because it sounds very unsophisticated and crude.

I don’t even know what the point of this post is any more. I’m just typing words, hoping they’ll lead me to something better than where I am right now. Hoping some part of this will be nice and therapeutic. If you have ever been depressed before, I am certain a lot of what I am writing resonates with you right now. If I was depressed—I mean, if I wasn’t depressed—I mean, if I was someone else, depressed, and reading my blog, I would feel greatly comforted to know someone out there feels the same way I do. Do you know what I have been up to today? Watching videos about homeless people and homeless shelters on Youtube. If that isn’t morbid, considering my situation, I don’t what it is; it’s rather like a terminally ill person designing their own tombstone.
What do I do? Pray? Meditate? Hope? Blast some Taylor Swift music, and pretend everything is alright?

I don’t know.

Dear dreamers, I really don’t know.

A Teardrop of A Dreamer’s Sadness


I’ve always had the feeling that I should—I don’t know, assert my significance in some way. Not in some egotistical, or grandiose fashion: I’ve just always thought, well, one day, I’ll be a writer, because I am good at it, and have plenty of creative ideas, and, sooner or later, I will get published.

Things haven’t happened like that. Not really. I know I am only twenty years old, but it feels as though I have already lived half my lifetime, with nothing to show for it. And now, as I send out another book, for the third time, to publishers, with little hope, even though I am very proud of the novel and would certainly read the children’s book—and heck, even buy it—myself, I don’t know if anyone, out there, in the world, will find it to be any good.

As a child, I didn’t ever dream of anything except becoming a writer, and now, older, and more grown-up, I’m starting to realise how difficult it really is to get into the industry. And as the days pass by, and I get no email, saying they (meaning the publishers) are interested in my book, and, knowing that I am already halfway to forty, towards a lifetime spent unpublished and unknown, makes me sink, slowly, into the depths of depression.

It is not fame or money that I am after, but literary recognition. I want someone to read my book, and love it—and not just one person, but lots of people. I want lots of people to see my imagination, splashed across the pages of a short, sweet novel. As a writer, I predominantly dabble in children’s books—and, if there’s an industry that’s hard to get into, it’s that one.

I can’t say I’m not a little depressed, as I send another message in a bottle out to the sea, and nothing comes back, no answer, no reply. I am left stranded on my island, alone, with only the seashells and the splash of the waves for company. I don’t think, in this lifetime, I could ever be properly happy without publishing something, by an actual publisher, no matter how small, or insignificant. Even if only one thousand people read it, I would be fine: as long as it’s a book, and it’s out there, I don’t think I’d have anything to complain about. It’s not about the fame, or the money—it’s about the little girl inside of me, with a head full of dreams and fantasies, yearning for them to be seen.

I hope you are having a better week than I am. I hope you are not lonely, that you are romantically involved with someone. It’s always nice to have something like that, someone by your side, a rock, a foundation. I also hope that you are making your way towards your dreams, or perhaps have achieved them already. In this rocky life, we each stand on our own islands, waiting for the messages in bottles we send out to come back to us. Some of us stand and wait for years, just for one reply—other islands are absolutely crowded with glass bottles, each with a missive tucked inside it. And others wait, alone on their islands, until the years grow low, and the sky goes dark, and there’s nothing left, except the sharks for company.


A Melancholy Post


I believe I am a fount of undeveloped potential. I believe my books, if read by the right person, might be scintillating enough to be published, and perhaps even made into films. But, so far, nothing has happened.

Enough about me. What about you? I hope you are having a wonderful time in life, I really do. I’m not one of those people who are bitter and upset if other people’s lives are going well—as one of God’s children, I rarely feel any jealousy when others are happy, and I am not. I hope you are in good health, and doing what you love, and enjoying life to its fullest. I hope you have good family and friends, or spouses and children, and that they are well, too. And I sincerely hope you’re not an unemployed, depressed starving artist who is seriously starting to re-think her dreams of becoming a writer, because they look to be as likely to happen as her becoming an astronaut tomorrow.

I went and saw a movie today. The funny thing is, whenever I am in the middle of watching a movie, for a brief moment, my depression lifts, and I am transported somewhere else. The movie, in case you were wondering, was “Black Panther”, and it was a marvellous film, though not exactly the kind of thing I would usually watch. There was far too much violence in it for me, though I did like the fact that the cast was nearly all African-American, which is unusual. If only they’d make more movies with other minority groups, like Asian-Americans (I am Asian myself, in case you were wondering.)

What else is there to talk about? Lots of things. Money is tight. Extremely tight. Tight enough that I am quite stressed, and biting my nails at night a little bit about it. I’m always afraid to eat out, and worried I spent too much—since I went out with a friend today, and watched a film, I spent around $20, which is over the daily limit that I get from Centrelink each week. I am searching for a job—in fact, right this very moment, I am about to start work experience for my Certificate III in Age Care. I will be working with the elderly, tending to their showering and other daily needs. While it is not the most glamorous job, at the very least it will pay some of the bills. And the hourly rate is around $20, so if I work full-time, which I do not plan on doing so, because of my mental illness, and part-time instead, I could easily earn $300 a week, and help my mother out with the bills.

Shattered dreams. Shattered hopes. It feels as though I’m some kind of grey sludge, crawling from one day to the next, leaving a trail of misery behind me like a big, fat snail. I want to be a writer so badly, it hurts; I want my books shown to the world so badly, when I think about it, I can’t breathe. It’s more than just a passion, or hobby, or a calling: writing, for me, is something that is intertwined with my soul, and the thought of never being successful at it, sometimes, is more than I can bear.

Moments at night, or when you are alone, are the worst. Have you ever been miserable about something, for an extended period of time, and then woken up in the middle of the night, alone in that darkness? Is it not the worst feeling it is possible for a human to experience, almost? Alone, in a galaxy. In the middle of the ocean. That’s what it feels like. As if everyone else is happily going on with their lives, having calm and blissful dreams, while you suffer, and suffer, alone in the dark depths.

I don’t know how I get through the day, and if you are going through something terrible, I don’t know how you get through the day, either. Every single second of existence feels painful, like it’s being dragged across my skin. Change your dreams. Give it up. Forget about becoming a writer. My mother tells me these things, but I don’t listen. I can’t. Writing is something I fell in love with at first sight, and, just like falling in love with a person, it’s impossible for me to stop now. I was fated and doomed the moment I picked up a book, and then picked up a pen to write my own stories. Isn’t that how things usually start? With a look, a glance—and then, you are gone.

Excuse-me for writing such a melancholy post. I’m sure your life is doing much better, and you do not need this little bit of melancholia in your life. Still, I am going to post it, because it is an accurate representation of how the world seems to me at the moment: dark, and depressing. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to find a way out of it. Success is sweet, they say, but failure isn’t bitter, it’s downright poisonous.

Why Are INFPs Depressed?


A lot of the time, we do not feel “okay”. No. “Okay” is a state other people experience. As creatures who wish and yearn for the perfect, idyllic life, rarely are INFPs okay, and we are, instead, often extremely unhappy, in a world where our life never lives up to its ideals. We are depressed. We are loners. We are people full of imaginative fantasies which never come true, and never come right when we try to put it down on paper. To put it simply, we are often not very happy people.

That’s the truth. You wish to sugarcoat it, saying INFPs can find beauty whenever they lay their eyes upon nature, or perhaps some INFPs get to lead their perfect life, but it doesn’t change the fact that most INFPs live their lives in a half-depressed, half-morose state. I know I’m not speaking for all INFPs here, but part of feeling as though we do not fit in, that we are stuck in our daydreams which our realities can never live up to, and feeling as though we are always inadequate and “not enough” makes for a very depressed life.

And other people don’t get it. They seem perfectly satisfied with their lives. They study, they got to work, they get married, they have children, whereas, we, INFPs, struggle with the barest minimum sometimes: getting up in the morning without feeling somewhat miserable. Even the thought of being in a job we like feels impossible, let alone getting married and having children.

It’s as if we live in some miserable, alternate reality, where everything is quite terrible and half-made, while everyone else lives in the real, proper world, where they have orderly lives, filled with work, and children, and friends, and visiting people, and outings. No. INFPs, since we often spend a great deal of time alone, immerse in books and movies, or in creative pursuits, lost inside the rabbit-holes of our own minds, wishing for a day when the sun breaks through the clouds and this entire world, this entire life, somehow turns itself upside-down and feels right, feels true.

They really don’t get it. If you ask a normal person for advice, they steer you towards psychologists, or tell you to just “get over it”, or, worst of all, act as if it is a burden, saying, “oh no, you’re depressed, again? What is it this time?” Well, it might be the fact that there are so many INFPs writers and artists whose dreams of writing and publication are unfulfilled. It might be that the man or woman we always imagined we would bump into one day has never arrived—in fact, every single person you have ever seen or met does not live up to your expectations of that wonderful human being, who will waltz into your life and make everything right. It might be that this is a cruel, evil world, sometimes, and sometimes, we don’t know how to deal with it, and just want to hide away. It might be that most people are so selfish, cold and impersonal out there in the world, and it’s not the kind of environment INFPs like to exist in. It might also be that we are constantly surrounded by people trying to talk sense into our heads, because we are by nature very illogical, and our thoughts can be rather strange. So, why am I depressed?

Because I am an INFP. And being depressed is who we are. And, as far as I can tell, there is nothing under the sun that can fix a sensitive, lonely and dissatisfied soul, short of a miracle. So, if there is any advice I can give you, dear depressed person, it is that you are not alone, and that there are thousands, if not hundreds of thousands of other INFPs out there, scattered all over the globe, feeling exactly the way you do. And that, unfortunately, is the only comfort I can give.

Diary Entry 5


dusty gray.jpg

Well, it’s the second day of depression, and I haven’t jumped off a bridge or taken any medication, so that’s good. I am still feeling quite apathetic about everything. It’s as if nothing interests me anymore, and everything is boring.  Even the words I am typing right now take a tremendous deal of effort. Everything is painful, and difficult.

I’ve never really felt like I’ve belonged anywhere before. I never had a group of friends, or people who I could hang out with and feel good around. Because I’m depressed, even as I write this, I feel the urge to stop and just lie on my bed and waste away the hours, but I’m not going to do that because it’s not good for my mental health. The urge to kill myself is getting very strong, though I’m still afraid to act on it so it’s likely I won’t be hospitalised any time soon. What was I talking about? Oh, yes. The point, again, by the way, of these diary entries, is for you, dear reader, to feel as though I am sitting with you, and having a conversation. Likely it will be a very boring sort of conversation, with a very sad and melancholy sort of person, but I hope, if you are feeling lonely yourself, or perhaps just might be interested in what I have to say, will glean some comfort or hope from my words. I’ve always been pretty much a loner. It’s strange. I just can’t seem to properly connect with people. Whenever I meet someone and speak to them, we only talk of trivialities, and there’s no deeper connection between us, no spark. I don’t think I’ve met someone ever in life with whom I’ve had an abiding connection with, a sense that we perhaps met in another life, or something like that, and have known each other before. I feel very lonely.

And it’s more than loneliness. I feel alone in my view of life and the world, which is a very bleak one. I don’t know what it is that keeps other people getting out of bed in the morning and living their lives, it’s incomprehensible to me, because everything in the world, when you are depressed, seems so pointless and meaningless. Other people live, laugh, work, eat, breathe, have families, go on holidays, and I feel myself to be entirely removed from that sphere of life, standing on the outskirts and looking in through the window. My greatest fear is that I will live a boring life, doing nothing very much in particular except working, never get married, never be a part of the normal flow of things, and then die, childless and unloved, of old age, in hospital, of cancer or heart failure. I can’t exactly explain it—but I always feel like I’m standing on the outside, looking at other people and their lives, and seeing how wonderful or at least satisfying their lives are, while I am completely lost, on my own, filled with insecurities and loneliness. I don’t know where I fit in. When I look at nature, at trees and grass, at the sky, I see only mindless apathy, an indifference beyond belief.


I’m also going through a pretty bad creative slump, and am so tired from lack of sleep for several nights glands inside my neck have swollen up and are very tender and painful. Really, do read this just to feel better about yourself, because all this post is is a litany of complaints on my part. I am going through a major creative slump when it comes to my writing. Normally I have a wealth of ideas—a while ago, I did—but now, the river of inspiration has run completely dry and I am left beached on the dry banks, heaving and spluttering. Writing isn’t an easy job, but it’s never been this bad before, and I am afraid I will never achieve my writing dreams. Granted, I am only nineteen, but that makes no difference; I’m too impatient and overeager, and wish I could snap my fingers to improve my writing prowess, just like that. Okay, now, just then, I felt another powerful urge to stop writing this blog post. To just give up. That’s what depression wants you to do, to relinquish everything and give yourself over to nothingness. I won’t. I will stand strong, and firm. I know I have what it takes to write a good book, but it’ll just take a great deal of time and effort, maybe even years of hard work. But I’ll get there eventually. I think in life it’s very important to follow your heart and listen to what it has to say. What feels right is generally the correct thing to do, and for me, writing does feel right, it feels like the thing I was born to do, and so I will keep following my heart, the trail of happiness, to wherever it may lead me.