Drawing Parallels

I typically shrink away from physical contact, but hugs from children are different, I’ve come to find.   It’s borne out of such innocence, which makes it trustworthy.

Some time ago, I told a pretty, little ENFP child that she’s smart.  “I’m not smart,” she responded softly.  In that moment, it was as though my ceramic heart cracked.  “You are smart,” I emphasised, but she shook her head.  She told me that I’m friendly.  « Je ne suis pas gentille.  Tu es gentille, plus gentille. »  I said to her, and placed a hand lightly on her shoulder.  She held my arm, and I knew it was a moment so I held onto hers as well, and she said, “You are good at your work, you are a good person, and you are a good friend.”  I looked at this sweet, little ENFP, thinking about how she’ll learn to intuitively tell what truly matters to others as she grows, and gave a smile and nod.

There was this other time when another bright, little child stopped slurping her spaghetti, looked up at me and said, “You have something here,” while tapping the side of her lips.  I looked at her, saw her chin and cheeks covered in a beard of pasta sauce, and burst out laughing.

When talking to two adult INFJs on separate occasions about my experiences with children, they each said, “You’re a good person, you know?”  Ah, the NFs and being a good person.  “You’re just like Katniss,” one of them commented, which is amazing — that they see the resemblance, that they understand.

As I retreat further into myself, my world becomes smaller and I feel more alone. As I retreat further into myself, I then truly become more alone. The connections I make through work fuels me, yet the sadness persists. I’m caught in the land in-between, sinking further down into the soil. Some have come to me with their problems, some while crying. I feel sad for them, but I also wonder why they feel comfortable enough with me. Shouldn’t I, a stone-cold INTJ, be the last person others would want to approach with emotional issues? Perhaps it’s the environment we’re in — the conducive atmosphere. From an outsider’s perspective, it must seem like such a bizarre setting. I feel like a fraud helping them. I am in no way qualified to do so, and I’m much more troubled and unhealthy than they are. It’s strange, isn’t it?



Writing on this blog provides some comfort. Some faux socialisation. Who exactly am I talking to? I don’t know. Who am I reaching out to? I’m not sure. It’s when I stop permanently that I’ll know it’s the end. This is all I have.

It’s funny how others perceive me as being overly secretive about myself when I would open up everything about myself, provided there’s trust in the relationship. I am selective, not secretive. I once discussed this with an ENFP, who said that they would never open up entirely to someone else, that it’d be too vulnerable. We talked about how strange that was, about how it’s the exact opposite that others would perceive us to be.

When I talk about relationships, people automatically associate it with the romantic sort. What exactly it means, I do not know. The physical nature of things scares me. I’m averse to it. I prefer staying in the cerebral realm.

I’m unlikeable and unloveable. It’s awkward admitting it out loud since it’s a somewhat taboo thing to say and it can come across as though it’s fishing for compliments. I’ve always said, since I was little, that if I were someone else, I wouldn’t want to be friends with myself. And I understand. I am obnoxious and annoying. It just hurts to be on this end of the pole sometimes.

Like a can that’s been left on an empty shelf, the longer it remains on the shelf, the more people would pass over it. Who would want an old, dusty can that’s near its expiration date? I wouldn’t want that. I see other solo cans on faraway shelves as well. Like damaged goods. Forgotten, left behind, and passed by. I wish I could reach out to them. I wish I could help them. But I’m not strong enough. I’m dented and rusting, just like they are. And together, we continue rusting, until we rust no longer.

“Is it because you’re a woman?”

My phone buzzed.  It was a text from a colleague (this colleague) sent hours before, asking if he could give me a call.  It sounded like there was an urgent matter at work.  I glanced at the clock — it was 10 at night.  I texted him back, apologising that I had only just seen his text, and asked if it was alright to call him then, knowing that he would have just ended work about that time and would have been making his way home.  He replied saying that he was currently on his commute and would get off at the next stop to give me a call.

“It’s that urgent?” I thought.

I told him I didn’t mind waiting for him to get home first, that he needn’t disrupt his commute.  But it was too late.

My phone rang.

When I picked up his call, I was hit at once with an accusatory question.  He asked if something had happened with the group of corporate clients I’d recently taken (who happened to all be men).  I thought back to the laughs the clients and I had, and responded with a “No”.  He didn’t seem to take my word for it so I stressed that “Nothing happened”.  He explained that their corporation had sent an email requesting for a change in representatives (i.e. me), and questioned again if I had done something wrong.  Insulted, I explained that it was news to me as well since everything had been going well.  He didn’t go into much detail about the email but instead asked,

Is it because you’re a woman?

Astounded, “No” was my response again.  (When I related this conversation to an ENFP, “What?!  He’s sexist!” was their reaction.)  He proceeded to tell me that he would try to sort matters out and that my meetings with them were terminated with immediate effect.  The phone call ended with a pitiful apology from him,

Sorry, INTJargon.  Sorry that this happened to you.

I had to get him to repeat that a few times as I could not clearly hear nor comprehend what he was saying and insinuating.  When it finally dawned on me what he was indeed conveying, “Okay” was my response.

After the phone call, I tried to figure out what had just occurred and came to the realisation that I hadn’t met these clients for 3 weeks, so whatever matters they’d brought up in the email mustn’t have been that urgent or drastic after all.  This colleague wasn’t aware of that as the meetings had been conducted externally.

When I arrived at the headquarters some time after, I took the opportunity to ask an admin what exactly had transpired.  This was what I learned: She told me that the clients were actually happy with me, that they mentioned there were lots of laughter during our meetings, but that the weaker half of the group was holding everyone back as I couldn’t translate well enough (a fair point), so they decided to ask to switch to someone else who could translate more fluently (which was understandable).  She said that they even requested for another woman which, in this case, I was glad to hear as it was a direct denouncement of the colleague’s condemnation.  So it wasn’t a big deal after all, and before I could even finish trying to express my thoughts on how the colleague handled the matter, she interjected with, “He’s a drama queen,” which I agreed with enthusiastically.

I’ve since come to realise that this colleague is an ENFJ 2w3 (and not an ENFP as I’d previously thought).  And I’ve also mentioned quite some time ago how my correspondence with 2w3s usually goes.

The Clock is Ticking

I’m barely doing anything.  Nothing substantial, really.  I have neither the internal nor the external resources left.  All I see is a life of monotony, of mediocrity, of stagnation.   That is not a life worth living.  I’m merely drifting.  But it isn’t about me.  It’s much bigger than that. 

The clock is ticking.

I often wonder why I post here, why I pour out my innermost thoughts here.  It’s a form of brain dumping, in an effort to keep me from bursting, to release some of the built-up pressure within me, to make it a little more bearable in the meantime.  Then comes the next question: Why do I make them public?  Attention is not what I seek; I prefer to slip into the shadows and morph into the background.  Help is not what I want; I’m past the point of no return.  What it is is that I’m still holding on to that sliver of hope, of longing, that someone will understand.

The clock is ticking.

I came across a post recently, about how:

She is eating their words on an empty stomach, glorifying the taste out of desperation, but she knows… that an empty stomach accepts anything edible.

That is an accurate depiction of how communication is to me.  Social interaction is a human need, yet to partake in or be starved of it—both are tormenting.  Redundancy is something I despise.  And still I keep repeating myself and walking round in circles.

The clock is ticking.


Circular Logic

Round the roundabout, we go.

If I’m the one unable to form a relationship, and others are capable of doing so, then it must really just be me, isn’t it?

If I’m the one who’s getting hurt at the littlest of things, and they have close relationships, then it must just be my hypersensitivity, isn’t it?

If I’m the one who’s not understood, while they have others who understand them, then it really is my fault, isn’t it?

If I’m always the common denominator, then I’m the only one to blame, isn’t it?

If I’m not doing anything about it, then it is my doing, isn’t it?

Disjointed Fragments

It’s amazing how much goes unnoticed in this world.
The beggars on the street,
The inner demons people face.
It’s amazing how much I see,
Not through rose-tinted glasses,
But from behind a glass wall.

There always was at least one acquaintance.
Someone I held on to due to anxiety—
Then discarded when it was no longer beneficial,
But it’s been at an absolute zero for a while now.
It’s strange,
This land.

It’s strange how easily and frequently tears form now,
Even when I’m out and about.
I wallow in it and let myself sink deeper.
I notice things, yet I don’t do anything about them.
I empathise and feel deeply for people,
Yet I’m not helping them.

I say that I love animals ardently.
Their mistreatment makes me want to tear my hair out.
Yet I do nothing to help them.
I can escape, but they can’t.
And I’m just going to leave them behind to suffer.
So what am I?

I say that I love to learn, but I’m not learning.
It’s a double-edged sword, to continue or to stop.
Both have their ramifications.
I’ve decided to embark on the second path,
Which will ultimately lead to the third.
So what am I to do?

History repeats itself.
My history repeats itself.
It’s a challenge
To keep holding on.
It’s arduous
To keep hanging on.

Immensely valuable,
And limited.
Yet there’s a yearning
For the last grains of sand in the hourglass
To fall.