My pride doesn’t like it when the new guy does well–the guy who replaced me in a position I admittedly came to despise.

Why is that?

Oscar Wilde once said that there are many things we would willingly cast side, if only we didn’t think someone would come behind us and pick them up.

I can feel my pride, the swelling ache in my chest, when the new guy closes a deal I know I would have struggled with. I ache all the more when he does it with a smile, with ease, like it’s fun.

—-It never was fun for me.

What is it in me that wants to win all the games I play because I’ve played them, and not just the ones I care about?

There’s a part of me that wants to both besmirch the work I did, and also be better than the guy that comes after. My ego needs me to win even if I feel I’m above it all.

If I listen to my ego, enlarge that swelling ache in my chest, and record its version of history, I may still be able to seek my happiness elsewhere, but it feels wrong to hide from the cold waters of humility.

I need to be real, with myself above all else, to know what my intuition is trying to tell me.

I need my weakness present with me, in order to remember the weaknesses of others.

I need my pain, in order to have compassion with the pain of others.


—So I laughed, and told him, “That was crazy! You really pulled it off!” and asked him how he did it, and laughed some more, and wished it wasn’t so painful for me to be gracious and true to others.

INFJs Are Adjectives Looking for Nouns

As an INFJ I feel like an adjective looking for a noun.

Know what I mean?

For all my pining to have time to myself to recharge, I actually get pretty depressed when I’m by myself. This is part of the complexity of the type itself, being introverted but also needing to spend time with people to stay sane.

When I finally have space to myself, I process all of my feelings and impressions from the day like a big garbage disposal. But at a certain point, I guess I run out of things to process, because I feel noticeably “down,” but the garbage disposal inside my mind is still churning along, looking for connections, meanings, patterns, ways of solving problems that don’t exist yet.

At no point do I feel like I should stop–I could sit on my IKEA Kivik, in my pajamas, cross legged, phone in my hand, staring through the carpet fibers for way longer than I should, instead of eating, or sleeping, or “doing” much of anything that could pull me out of the spiral.

As uncomfortable as it makes me, I find I’m most myself when I’m doing something, or when I’m with someone, or when I’m solving some problem at work. It’s like my personality and mental energy finally has something to “digest” or “reflect” or “riff” off of.

I’m like some crack addict looking for a high. It’s just that I get high off of some pretty weird stuff compared to most people. Like Alan Watts lectures on YouTube. Or Terrence McKenna. Or whatever I happen to be in to intellectually.

And it’s not even the intellectual content that I crave, but the emotional, intuitive “sense” of the world that I get by learning new things. It’s like transmitting a painting through words, but the painting is the universe itself. Nevermind the individual word-colors and concept-brushstrokes. It’s the sense of INFJ World Building¬†that I’ve read about from Lauren Sapala’s book¬†The INFJ Writer.

That’s part of what makes the creative effort so difficult. I feel like a fiction writer in temperament that’s full of philosophy and non-fiction instead of other fiction. I’m not so interested in the nitty-gritty of the philosophies themselves as much as conveying to other people the sense of wonder and mystery and meaning that they give to me.

Learning I’m An INFJ Made My Life Worse

When I found out I was an INFJ / INFP (I came out borderline on the P and J parts, but strongly on the INF sides), it was like being in a dark closet all alone, then turning around and seeing that you’re actually in the middle of an enormous mead hall full of like-minded people.

The descriptions of alienation, of feeling different from everybody else, of having incredibly low energy reserves for any kind of activity or interaction, but especially the since of a crushing burden of high destiny–but without any idea of what do do or how to accomplish it–granted me a feeling of membership in a secret organization I never new existed.

The more I searched out INFJ and INFP articles, the less lonely and more validated I felt.

So I crushed it! I read constantly. Everything I could find. Spent hours some days googling and link-hopping my way to greater self knowledge and self awareness–two of my favorite things!

Anyway, I couldn’t read all this stuff and not start acting different.

Yes, the more I read about what my personality type was like, the more difficult it was to do things that were expressly described as being “not my type.” I work in sales. I’m around people constantly. I was in finance at the time–so much bureaucratic drudgery! I felt like all my discomfort I had been suffering through for 6 years was completely justified because it was clearly not the right fit for me.

So I became less patient. I became more withdrawn. I became moody and less able to handle tedious paperwork. I resented the long working hours and the time I was kept from my own self-care, my family, and my creative endeavors.

After a short amount of time, it began to feel intolerable to do my day-to-day work, whereas before, it had only been uninspiring.

This was a big shift.

A few months after all this began to unravel, I was suddenly demoted from my position of 2 years, with a corresponding life-altering pay cut. That was a few weeks ago.

Which brings me to where I am.

My feelings about understanding my Personality type are extremely ambivalent now–

On the one hand, they gave me a sense of validation and belonging which I had never had.

On the other hand, they took violent hold of my moody psychology and presented a justification for my own unhappiness, which made it difficult to continue along my status quo.

Now, I can’t help but feel like I’ve put myself and my family in a precarious position because of my emotions stirred up by realizing I’m an INFJ.

Yet, there is still a sense of hope, like I was painfully shedding some part of myself that just didn’t fit for me. I’ve traded worrying about my health, my legacy, and my sacrificed creative endeavors to now worrying about money, and security, and finding work that can provide that while also being more aligned with my idea of myself.

Happiness Through Content Creation

Here’s my experiment:

Rather than soul-searching, pondering, planning, hypothesizing, philosophizing—-

—I wonder if the trigger for finding fulfillment as an INFJ/INFP is through the production of creative work itself.

The test of this is simple: create content, nevermind the inner critic, and see what comes.

This isn’t about creating traffic, or income, or anything concrete like that. This is purely about my own joy and fulfillment, and seeing what it is out there that moves me.

My theory (Highly Sensitive Introvert here, I have one about everything!) is that my default mode of action, which requires immense forethought, and research, and inner-compass-calibrating, and emotional fluctuation, before feeling ready to choose a course of action–is self-frustrating even to an INFJ/INFP.

All the indicators point towards my Myers-Briggs type being especially creative and happiest as artists, writers, and so forth. But though I’ve always had story ideas, one of which I’ve been working on since I was in middle school, I’ve never been able to push through and create anything that would be worth sharing. I would never stop changing, altering, editing my work as I went, and since this act wasn’t fun for me, I finally stopped writing altogether about 2 years ago.

So what I’m interested in is not whether my writing improves, or I get creative ideas by being forced to create content, and so forth–that’s what I was doing with this site 2 years ago.

This time, my theory is that the act of creating and publishing, by itself–even bad content–will be an intrinsically enjoyable thing for me, and that the pursuit of the happiness that comes from publishing and creating will be the stimulation that makes the whole grind worthwhile.

I’ll stick to it as long as I feel like I’m getting something out of it.

2 Years Later

It feels strange being here again.

My blog posts have my name on it–but I swear I barely remember who wrote them.

I’m here to rebuild myself and try to make sense of what being “happy” and “fulfilled” means to me.

I’ve shed quite a few labels in the interim–and picked up quite a few more.


Highly Sensitive Person


But this is me trying to understand the me that doesn’t much care for any of the labels. A part of me that I feel like I’ve lost touch with, but a part I will need if I am going to put my life together–not again–but in many ways for the first time.

If you stumble upon this pile of mental debris, I hope that it is of some help to you. If my feelings remind you of yourself, I hope that it is a small comfort to just know that you’re not alone in your struggles.