With the way INFPs seem to dominate the Internet, popping up in hundreds on forums, on blogs, you could almost be led to believe that there are quite a lot of us out there, and we aren’t as rare as the studies say. Continue reading
Sometimes, I feel as though asking a monkey to build a Ferris Wheel using only banana peels would have a higher success rate than finding an occupation INFPs feel comfortable in – apart from, of course, the quintessential “I want to be a writer” spiel that sends parents all over the world into heart attacks at the kitchen table. Our personality perfectly predisposes us to the task – imaginative, creative, with a natural love for words, for thinking and pondering and spending great periods of time alone – and it’s been a firm belief of mine for a while that a great deal of the books in the world were written by INFPs.
When it comes to making money, however, we seem to hit a wall, against which most of us will beat our fists at for a great deal of our adulthood. I, myself, even if I did not have the anxiety and sensory issues preventing me from pursuing a traditional pathway for the time being, find it terribly difficult to slot myself into the machine. I think there a few reasons for this. One is that we are free-spirited creatures – occasionally a little too free-spirited. This not only spurs us to rebel against authority and tradition, it has other darker sides: procrastination, never committing to anything, flitting through life thinking we are free when in truth we are only sabotaging ourselves by not following a schedule and working steadily month after month in order to become an expert in whatever field we have chosen. But most of all, this means that the thought of someone – be it the government, or a teacher, or boss – monopolizing our time, forcing us to spend our days as they see fit in order to earn “money” we see all too clearly as being a sham, just paper collectively agreed to possess value, doesn’t sit right with us. In fact, it sits so very poorly that sometimes the necessity of earning a living in this world feels like a noose around our neck, tightening by the day.
Though some among us do end up making a living as writers, most of us do not have that privilege, at least not yet, and must “clock in the hours”. Thus, we end up in three possible situations. One is where we work at a tedious and usually stressful job that takes a toll on our hearts and our mind while pursuing our interests, like writing, or philosophizing, in our spare time. Another is that we end up dependent on others to keep a roof over our heads and food in our stomachs, as is the case with my life right now, living with my mother despite having reached adulthood this year and struggling with some psychological and sensory issues. The final situation is a compromise: we find something in our daily jobs to love, such as the connection or bonds formed with customers, and thus find ourselves able to bear it even if the other tasks involved in the job make us want to tear our eyes out. There is, in fact, a fourth scenario, which is that we end up homeless, extravagant little hippies living out of the back of caravans or in cars, and on the dole (if we’re lucky), despite the deep well of kindness in our hearts and our high intelligence.
However, none of these situations – and I am sure I don’t have to point out that the last is particularly unpleasant – are ideal, and sometimes not even tolerable. First, working at a job that wears away at your soul is going to have consequences, ranging from chronic fatigue syndrome, depression and panic attacks. Make no mistake: you are going to be miserable, and most likely bored out of your mind. Look, we’re quiet creatures who are energized by solitude and quiet contemplation – and most jobs either require extensive contact with people or are stressful, filled with phone calls and paperwork. Depending on someone for your livelihood can be just as miserable, and I speak this from experience. For one, you be plagued by skin-peeling guilt almost every second of the day for not financially contributing to the household and gradually see yourself as a useless, lazy excuse of a human being, even if you suffer from mental issues or have been unable to find or hold down a job due to your natural introversion or inability to tolerate workplaces. Our independence is also important to us, and it is impossible to feel independent if someone else is paying the bills for you – or, in my case, buying the groceries and even helping me borrow my library books. What’s more, INFPs need to be occupied in personally fulfilling work at all times, regardless of whether it brings in an income or not, which is why, although I do not have a job, I am taking free online courses and pretending writing is a full-time job (your imagination can do wonders for fixing your procrastination issues! A favourite of mine is to pretend I am in jail, and all I have is a laptop without internet, or a pencil and paper, in order to get myself writing). As for holding a job we acclimatise ourselves to, teasing out the good parts while tolerating the bad, well, once again, eventually, it takes a toll. Homelessness is the worst option of the lot, though living in a caravan or a car, if you do not struggle with any mental issues, can be, depending on your personal tastes, a viable method of existence.
Compounding this problem is the fact that our natural skills and abilities are not prized by the modern workforce, and are sometimes even liabilities rather than assets. We are highly empathetic, highly independent, highly scatter-brained, highly idealistic, highly imaginative, highly melancholy and highly introverted – almost the exact antithesis of the kind of person society values: extroverted, charismatic, charming, bold, a go-getter, cheerful, good social skills. All we have really going for us is our creativity and writing skills – hence why so many of us gravitate towards writing as a possible career path – but, as we all know, getting good at writing takes time, and you often need to support yourself in other ways as you build up your skills. So basically, what you have is a group of people who are creative, philosophical, sensitive and kind who find themselves without a place to call home in the world.
Granted, some INFPs do end up landing in jobs which are the right fit for them, such as roles in non-profit organisations perhaps involving writing, or as a freelance writers – but they’re rare, and those INFPs who are successful today in a field they enjoy often went through similar struggles due to their personality type before they hit their sweet spots. So what do we do? Where is this elusive home that everyone else seems to find and for which we seem to be forever seeking?
It’s different for every INFP, but I believe that our only true homes are our own minds and imaginations, the one place in the entire universe where we can be entirely free – yet another reason why writing is so natural an activity for us. What this means, however, is that anything which exists beyond the boundaries of your mind – basically, the rest of the world – will never live up to your expectations, and never satisfy you (this is true for everybody, on some level).
Thus, the only solution to living the life we want (once again, not applicable to all INFPs) is to find a way to live inside our minds as much as possible, where we are the happiest and often find the greatest fulfillment. Now, there are probably people out there who will disagree with this conclusion, because it seems to suggest that INFPs should, instead of going out there and truly “living”, retreat into their imaginations and escape reality. But they do not understand that it is only in the realms of our mind do we feel truly free and happy, nor the joy wandering through the labyrinth of our own thoughts brings us. The true reason why we find it so hard to find a place in this world is because we are internal rather than external creatures; we are organisms of the mind and the heart, rather than the body. Therefore, as dreamers, centering ourselves more in the mind and the heart, where we naturally feel the most comfortable, is the truest path to happiness.
I don’t know exactly what you would find most fulfilling – it doesn’t have to be writing, not all INFPs are natural-born writers or love writing, we’re all different – but chances are, it’s connected to the heart or the mind in some way, in that it is something that engages your creativity, imagination, and natural empathy for other living creatures. As long as you make sure whatever you are doing comes from either of those two spiritual organs, you’re on the right path.
The good thing is that your mind and your heart can be engaged no matter what task you are doing or where you are in life. If you are working at a job you dislike that burns your soul a little more with each day that passes, then use your imagination to free yourself. Escape during meetings, while waiting in line for the photocopier; it will be enjoyable, and make the time fly by much faster whilst also exercising your creativity. This will be easier if your job does not involve much higher-order thinking. Pretend you are a djinn, forced to do tasks for your unbending master, trapped by shackles made of crisp dollar notes. You can also use work time, as surreptitiously as possible, to write, or engage in whatever task that fulfill you. For example, write on used office sheets, or finish the work you do very quickly and write during the rest of the time while pretending to be doing company work. Be creative: write in office diaries, on Post-It Notes. It’s not unscrupulous – much of the workforce is set up to waste your time on meaningless, dull tasks just to spool some extra numbers into your bank account and keep you occupied, and if it’s possible for you to find a loophole, a rambling little path away from the highway, then, by all means, take it. No matter what your situation is, use your creativity to try and make life fulfilling for you, while still allowing you to keep a roof over your head.
For those of you who are unemployed and on the dole, living in caravans or cars, or dependent on another for food and shelter, the same principle applies. Just because you don’t have a proper “job” doesn’t mean you can’t keep yourself busy. It’s easy for INFPs to fall into procrastination and laziness, as we’re easily distracted by anything that flies by our way, and, with the Internet, the air is now filled with swarms of interesting flying things. Reading books is much easier than writing them; thinking about philosophy much easier than putting philosophical concepts into practice; imagining a flourishing garden easier than getting your hands dirty and planting one. Often for us, like most people, the more time we have, the more we squander it. So don’t. If you’re not in traditional employment, make sure you are still constantly engaged in productive and meaningful tasks, whether that is writing, or reading up books on Psychology, building your own freelance writing business, planting some spring onions in pots along the grimy windowsill of your caravan – anything other than being idle and wasting your time. Doing so will also help beat back the guilt that will swamp you for not working and contributing to society, because technically you are working, working very hard indeed, only you are not being paid for it yet.
Also, I would recommend you try and save your money and not purchase unnecessary items – not only will it help the environment, but the less money you spend, the more money you save, and the more money you save, the more freedom you will have. Don’t eat out, buy second-items and less-processed foods, save up for items that truly contribute to your well-being like books. This shouldn’t be particularly difficult, as most of us are quite content with very little, and have little desire for extravagances or luxuries. Pinching pennies doesn’t make you a cheapskate – it makes you smart, and environmentally aware. Consumption in the world is at an all-time high, flushing the environment with our toxins and wastes, and the consumerism model of a constant cycle of using and discarding just isn’t sustainable in the long-term. Besides, the best things in life, like friendship, literature and the imagination, are free, anyway.
What’s more, the more money people like us have, the better of a world it will be, because, being kind folks, we’re more likely than any other group of people to donate to charities and help people if we have the resources to. If more of the world’s wealth and power was concentrated in the hands of INFPs (unfortunately most of us only seem to make our fortunes through artistic fields, like writing and film-making, notorious for their low entry-rates), there would be less suffering on Earth. Take J.K Rowling, for instance, a famous INFP – she is no longer a billionaire because she gave away so much of her money. In that sense, we almost have an obligation to try and accumulate as much wealth as possible (out of all MBTI types, we tend to earn the least due to our natural skill sets – bankers earn more than psychologists – so it’s a tough call), to the best of our abilites, in order to help the people who need help, rather than let wealth pile up in the bank accounts of the greedy, selfish and less philanthropic, where it sits there, an untapped resource, doing nothing and helping no-one.
There are no easy answers, but armed with our hearts and our minds, our imagination, creativity and kindness, we can fight back, and carve out lives true to ourselves and make the world a better place in the process. We are often intelligent and discerning, able to see easily into the workings of society, the shams of the modern-day world (the crowning jewel of which is the economic system), yet powerless to change the terrible things we see, and often the most oppressed group of people by the system itself. You are not alone, however; a small percentage though we may make of the world population, we do actually number in the millions if you take the total world population into account. So, in reality, there are millions of good people, idealists and dreamers, INFPs, out there, who all feel alone, and like they are the only pure and good souls in the world, the last moral bastions of society, when it’s just that we’re a little spread-out – and it is this dispersal that reduces our power.
With the Internet, however, that no longer has to be the case. It’s cliché, I know, but it’s true: alone, we are weak; together we are strong, stronger than our wildest dreams. Can you imagine what it would be like if we formed a global network of INFPs through the internet, leveraging our combined strength to help each other and do good in the world? INFPs are, in essence, an untapped resource of kindness in humanity, and have been up, until now, being soft, shy, retiring, unseen, brushed under the carpet, our voices drowned out by louder ones. You must stay strong – for yourself, for other INFPs, and for the world (and really, when I say “INFPs”, I am in actuality referring to anyone who is extraordinarily kind and idealistic; the MBTI just allows us to find like-minded people more easily). Take heed my advice on making money so you will be able to survive in society whilst maintaining your sanity. I will do my part, continually honing my writing skills so that one day, when I am a published and established writer, I will be able to leverage my economic and social power to help you, to help any suffering people in the world, and to help and bring joy to as many human beings as I can over the course of my life. That is what making money means for INFPs: to allow us to survive so we can seek personal fulfillment and improve the world.
If you need any help or support in life, no matter what the issue is, please feel free to contact me at email@example.com. In the past, I’ve not been the best at replying to emails on time, but these days I am making a conscious effort to check it more often, and to try and reply to every message that I receive, especially from INFPs who are struggling. Please, however, do not be disheartened if it takes a few days. You are NEVER alone; every single INFP existing in the world today, including myself, suffers along with you, and understands you. Let us support each other, and, in doing so, support the world.
If you’re a dreamer, chances are you idealize people. It’s wired in our natures. We live in a world of imagination and fantasy, and we can’t help but superimpose our glorious visions of perfection upon those around us.
This can sometimes cloud our judgment to an unhealthy extent. It’s a good thing to see the silver lining threaded through the soul of every human being, but we have to understand that not everyone is a marble statue of wonder. Often, upon closer inspection, we find cracks feathering through the structure of our idols, and the weathering of age upon their visages.
But disillusionment is not the only ramification of idealizing people. Idealizing is a veneer of pretty glitter. It distorts your vision. You see a goddess instead of a woman. You see a superhero rather than a man. And by doing so, you prevent yourself from truly getting to know other human beings.
I recall idealizing a boy in primary school to such an extent that I could not even speak to him, for fear of shattering the illusion. I had also blown out of proportion his good qualities, and made myself feel astronomically inferior. I regret that. Maybe I could have got to know a really friendly guy, but my fantasy-loving brain got carried away, and left me with only an fragmented illusion.
So, what can you do to fix this?
It’s hard to rewire our thoughts, especially since we live in a society where celebrity worship is, well, celebrated. People faint upon meeting their favourite actresses or getting their book signed from a famous author. This societal glorification, a large-scale projection of idealization, almost seems to tell us that human worship is okay.
Sure, you can love people for their public image and their work. But what you have to realise is that everyone is human. I mean it. Human. Raw. Sometimes ugly, sometimes beautiful.
The only way to stop idealizing the people you currently worship is to talk to them and get to know them. However, if the wall of illusion is already built, and you can’t stand tearing it down, you can prevent it happening in the future by changing your mindset.
By keeping in touch with your inner humanity. Now, this doesn’t mean feeling compassion for the creatures of this world – you have enough of that. It means seeing humans for what they truly are. They are not deities. They are just like you. No, seriously. Think about it. They are just like you. Sure, give or take some differences in terms of talent, money and looks, but, in the end, they’re human. We all cry. We all eat. We all hate. We all love. We are united by our common humanity. We all have horrible I-want-to-die days and blissful life-might-be-okay-after-all days. Yes. Everyone. That cute girl that sits behind you in class. Your favourite pop star. The president.
All I’m saying is, dear dreamers, that we’ve got to be careful and not create a land of jewel-soul beings of unparalleled perfection in which we’re the only sand-bag rag doll. It’s no good for forming true relationships, and no good for you, either, because you’ll just get up feeling terribly inferior.
And, hey, if you’re really struggling with pulling away the veil of moonbeams, just imagine the object of your idealization sitting on the toilet and pooping. And maybe not even with grace. Just the way you do it, slouched down on the toilet seat, playing on your phone. It’s a bit unsightly, but it works. That’s a sure fire way to drag the cloud down to earth.
But in all other respects of your life…
Creativity is a curious creature, and has been studied greatly over the years by imaginologists. Though their work still leaves much to be desired in terms of the breadth of information, what has been uncovered is intriguing.
Its habitat is the mind. However, as is the case for many organisms, creativity has been found to be fastidious in regards to the type of mind within which it dwells – though it can survive in the bone caverns of any noggin, it prefers open, spacious and playful environments, filled with bursts of neural activity, rather than enclosed, insular and rational ones which only spark intermittently now and then with little in the way of intensity.
One of its most striking features is its diet, which is renowned for its variety. It has been found feeding on ideas, books, people, current affairs, science, nature, and, well, pretty much anything present in the outside world, and sometimes in the inside world as well, such as despair and euphoria. In fact, creativity is a psychological autotroph, and able to weave together complex chemical strands of inspiration from the radiation energy emitted from nerve synapses alone, though it needs exposure to the outside environment before such reactions can occur.
This creature is renowned for its fickle disposition. Countless imaginologists have tried approaching the creature with mixed results. Sometimes, it pads over to them, docile as a cat, and licks their hand and purrs, or snootily ignores any advances, no matter the degree of coaxing, and struts off into the corner with its psychedelic tail in the air, or, worst of all, at other times, simply lies down to sleep, curling up among the brain crenellations, and no amount of cajoling can rouse it.
Creativity undergoes procreation through parthenogenesis, that is, it reproduces alone, without a mating partner. There is no yearly cap on the number of offspring it produces, though, depending on the breadth of the panoply of its diet, its offspring are also varied, birthed in the form of sundry art, such as books, films, artworks, business models and clothing.
The creature also has many natural predators, including procrastination, self-doubt, lack of confidence, television, video games, the internet, anxiety and stress. However, if an optimum habitat is chosen, or an area groomed to an optimum level through the erection of mental fortresses and suchlike, many of these predators can be easily avoided or warded off.
As to its physical appearance, well, that still remains a mystery, for it is a constantly reproducing, its offspring gestating inside of them during all months of the year like butterflies wriggling and squirming inside chrysalises, resulting in them taking on the color, form and shape of whatever creature it is currently bearing, so that it often has the appearance of a perpetually flickering and shifting phantasmagoria of images, ideas and words. Thus, so far, imaginologists have been unable to isolate its true appearance from those of its offspring, and are not hopeful they ever will.
For those of you who want to own one of these creatures and rear them as faithful pets, imaginologists have good news – they are free, and can be found in your nearest mental habitat, most likely the wrinkled nub between the lobes of your ears. Yes, that’s the one. However, make sure you build a proper habitat for it, to keep out the predators, feed it properly and take it out for regular walks and exercise, so that it remains healthy and strong. Doing these, though you may never tame it completely, will increase the likelihood of it approaching you with friendliness and giving birth to wondrous offspring in the years to come.
For some reason, I feel like I am going to make a confession, and a sinful one at that.
After being aspersed for most of my life for being ‘strange’, ‘abnormal’ and ‘eccentric’, it’s hard to de-wire the internalization that being weird isn’t a bad thing.
So. Here is my sin. I adore weird fiction.
Like, the psychedelic kind.
Surreal imagery. Grotesque descriptions. Outlandish, creepy concepts.
Animals turned inside out, suspended in amniotic fluid basins. Flowers that chew the fingers off children. People that weather and disintegrate into hollow skeletons by the end of the merry ground ride. Bugs that slither tongues into mouths and feed off dreams. A mother with button eyes. Dolls that come to life, bloom to full-size, and traverse the floorboards at night, enormous woolen heads nodding, knitted mouths hungry.
My favorite book as a child was Alice in Wonderland.
My favorite writers are Ray Bradbury, Neil Gaiman, Edgar Allen Poe, Paul Jennings, John Collier, China Melville, H.P Lovecraft and Roald Dahl, all of whom are a dab hand at penning bizarre, off-beat tales.
I find the odd, alien and peculiar absolutely fascinating. Perhaps it’s because I’m odd myself. Or maybe reality is too normal for me, so I seek the abnormality I crave in other, more fantastical realms. I don’t see, and this is just my opinion, the point of writing stories which involve real life, with real people, with no touch of fantasy. Hasn’t reality got enough of that? Instead, my imagination only likes to twist and distort and venture out into strange territory. Let the shoes of inspiration take me where they may.
So what’s the big deal? It’s hardly immoral, right? I used to spout off freakish ideas that sprouted in my mind like gloriously fetid blooms of dream-fungus in the middle of conversations, simply because it struck my fancy and sometimes the ideas were to strange and wonderful to be savored alone. To my horror, I received pointed looks, even reactions of disgust.
It may sound trivial, but as a painfully sensitive and introverted person, further social rejection in response to an aspect of my being was torture.
So. Here’s my confession. I’m an avid reader, love and writer of weird fiction. I’m not twisted or sick. I’m just an average person with an above-average imagination. And I’m going to see where it leads me, whether people in my life accept my eccentricity or not.
What about you? I’d love to hear from anyone who is also a fan of weird fiction. Or have any of you harbored a secret love for something which was unconventional and therefore shunned for it?
You are the love of my life.
You are always there for me.
Even when this universe seems to crash against another and the cosmic explosion tears a rift down my reality.
You take me to other worlds. Undreamed of, unheard of. New worlds. Exciting worlds.
You blossom when I am alone with you. Nothing else except you and me.
You come to life when I plaster you down onto paper and give you a leaden, penciled kiss.
You are the bright fire that stokes my soul when all around darkness lies.
You’re there when no-one else is. You’re there when I’m sad. You speak to me of the suffering of phantoms. Of aliens. Of inanimate objects. Of misery in another dimensions. You string all these characters around me for commiseration, and I feel better.
If I were to lose you, my life would be empty.
My heart would be empty.
My soul would be empty.
My brain would be empty (literally).
Existence would lose all colour. I would become the walking dead. I would miss your whispers. Your kisses. Your caresses.
You won’t ever leave me, will you? After all, you are a part of me, more than you will ever know.
You can’t leave me. Unless my television intake increases and I become a brainwashed zombie and neglect you. Unless I go under the knife and get a lobotomy and I forget you.
I know we will have a wonderful, long life together.
I hope we have lots of babies in the future. Book babies. Story babies.
We’ll rock together on the front porch, watching the sunset.
We’ll cradle in the warmth of each other when my body takes its last breath.
You’ll whisper bony secrets to me and my dying lips will rasp back.
And once I am gone, you must leave. You will grieve. You will cry.
But then you will move on. A vaporous exit from out my ears. You will feel happiness again.
You will flit inside another’s skull.
A new relationship.
A new beginning.
And again and again.
For all eternity.