Fellow INFPs, do you feel me?
Oh, my fellow INFPs, can you tell me? Do you feel fundamentally flawed?
Much of the time, I feel like nobody understands me. So many people seem to operate on logic and don’t understand that I am based in the heart. I must seem ridiculous to them, and I find that when I speak to them I have trouble packaging my words in a way that helps them understand how I’m feeling or why I feel the way I do. And I’ll admit I don’t always understand them either. How does one work from the mind and not from the heart?
I feel destined to be misunderstood and alone. All the things they love about me come from the same place as the things maybe they don’t love so much.
All that they adore in us can turn into the reasons they chose to ignore us. Our passion. Our heart.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve always felt ashamed of the way I am. I noticed I was different–more sensitive–than others. Hiding the tears I cried during sad movies. Plastering on the fake smile that I cultivated to cover the injury inflicted upon me by the simplest of statements (to them) until I was alone and it dripped down my face like melting wax lips.
As I’ve gotten older, I’ve worked hard to embrace my sensitivity and what makes me…me. But it’s tough when a friend tells you that maybe you aren’t worth their friendship because you get sad or upset when they attack something that you are extremely passionate about. They don’t understand that it feels like the world might crumble without those things which make your heart soar. Without which, we might stay hidden in the dark shadows that our pain buries us in. Often times, they don’t even see how what they may have said could be perceived as an attack at all. Are we unsolvable puzzles to others?
When I love someone and find them worthy of my attention, I love them deep within every cell of my body. This doesn’t happen often. I don’t have many people that I want to focus on in such a grand way, but when I find them, it is like magic. They are magic. But if they end up rejecting me, it feels like a world of color was suddenly reduced to gray.
They may not understand that because I care for them so much, their words can sting more than anything brought upon me by those I do not give a shit for. I guess that is a lot of responsibility to put on someone who may not understand the space in which I live.
But I don’t think they understand the heavy load that my affections place on my shoulders. I feel the pain of others deeply and am often compelled to listen and help. Their pain becomes my pain. If someone or something matters to me, I will put everything I’ve got into making it all better for them.
But not everyone is like this. Sometimes when I need an understanding ear or hand to hold, I can come up empty. Left to shoulder the torturous burdens alone. Not that other types are bad. They just don’t see or feel things the way I do. I understand that they are not trying to neglect or hurt me but they are…different. But understanding that fact doesn’t lift the clouds, does it?
So, am I meant to be alone?
Perhaps this why so many of our kind turn to the pen. The page will always understand the rhythms to which our hearts thump. Putting our words into black and white feels like the safest way to express and release our pain. Maybe no one will read or listen but it helps when we can transform our feelings–heart–into art.
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