I’m an INFJ, and I Hate It

Yes, you read that correctly. I said it. I’m an INFJ, and I hate it.

I hate that I’m empathetic to a fault, that I absorb other people’s emotions and energies, which throws me completely off-guard and out of sync with myself.

I hate that I’m emotional, SUPER emotional. That I can wake up all bouncy, happy-go-lucky, and smiling with an optimistic outlook on life, and then minutes later I see a homeless person begging for food or any form of roadkill during my commute to work, and then I’m instantly weeping like a baby for its mother at two in the morning as I begin to contemplate life, what it means, the horrors and tragedies of it all, and how somedays our very existence seems utterly bleak, hopeless, and futile if all that connects us is this baseless hatred.

I hate that I care so cussing much.

I hate how I have this “intuition” which makes it feel as though I’m trying to win an eternal game of multi-level chess against myself. That it’s incessantly observing a myriad of minutia, sorting everything into the discreet files of my mind, theorising probable outcomes because it never stops analyzing anything from the forced smile of a cashier to the limp of a middle-aged man to the sudden change in weather.

I hate that I have this brain that won’t shut down, that I can’t just “enter into rest mode” because even when I’m sleeping my backup hard drive, or subconscious, continues working through my dreams.

I hate that I’m overly expressive to the point of being constantly labelled as over-the-top, melodramatic, drama queen, etc., or that people assume I’m a people pleaser always trying to gain everyone’s approval like some sort of performing hypocrite. I also hate that in certain contexts I knowingly do this as a defense mechanism because I have this “resting sad face,” which people don’t like or don’t understand.

I hate that I have a dark side when I also have this apparent reputation to uphold as if I’m some sort of mythological, angelic being. I hate that I’m not free to be human and make mistakes.

I hate that I’m sensitive, like really sensitive. That people have always asked me, “Why do you cry so much?” or have accused me that I cry too much. That the moment anyone confronts me about an issue, especially if it’s something personal –– e.g. I’ve offended you, I’ve done something morally wrong, I’ve committed an injustice –– I shut down and can’t communicate because all the aforementioned attributes and more are now in panic mode due to me committing the cardinal sin: hurting someone, especially if it is someone I care for and love.

I hate that I love so deeply, so passionately, so wholeheartedly. That I trust too easily, that I give into someone’s vulnerability so naturally, that I keep no record of wrongs because I’m a moronic idealist whose head sometimes gets a little too caught up in the clouds.

I hate that I’m an idealist always looking at the world through rosy-tinted glasses seeing what could be, what should be, searching for the deeper truth, hidden meanings, and constantly driving my family and friends crazy with my ideologies and romances.

I hate that when I try to express myself in any way, it becomes this jumbled, inarticulate mess that’s misinterpreted, misunderstood, or I sound too archaic, schmaltzy, or abstract.

I hate that I’ve grown up always misunderstood, forcefully put into a box I never quite fit into, or people have tried to mold me into their ideal image of what I should become, all the while whittling away my sharp corners, trying to shove me deeper into this round hole when I know I was born to be a simple square peg, plaguing me with the questions, “Why can’t anyone else see what I instinctively know? Why can’t I prove it? Why do people always try to change me? Why can’t I just be myself?”

I hate when those I trust use these traits of my personality, these quirks, as the double-edged sword they are, against me. That they use them to cut me, to wound me, to ridicule and belittle me. That they take all these things I already hate about myself and admit in cold blood that they hate them too through their sardonic jests and lies.

But what I hate most of all is that I grew up hating myself, conditioned and lied to by society, leaders, and peers, believing I must be some form of alien species attempting to pass as a human. That is, until suddenly one day my teacher at university had her class take this weird personality test called “Myers-Briggs” because the results were supposed help us as classmates learn how to relate to one another with better understanding. Then, as if to prove a point, driving the final nail into my coffin, I end up having to take this said stupid test 3-5 times over the period of 2 years because each time I did, the results never seemed to match up like everyone else. And then, at long last, when I got that miraculous result, as I read the description, something ignited in my soul: a hope, a truth, something which I tried to drown out my entire life because I’ve been trying to conform to everyone else’s expectations, preferring harmony above all else, even at the expense of my true self. This something whispers and tells me, “It’s okay. You’re not crazy, not alien, just…different. You’re a little weird, but you’re okay because I made you this way. Don’t despise what I’ve created and called good. Be free to truly be who you are.”

And in that moment of self-realisation, when my so-called “psychic” intuitive abilities instantly clicked, and all those missing puzzle pieces suddenly appeared, completing this picture I always hoped and dreamed about for myself –– not for any reason except that I wanted something or someone to tell me I was enough, I was worth it, I mattered –– suddenly, everything seemed all right with the world. I had finally found the language to communicate what I had been intuitively feeling since the first moment someone in grade school, or my INTJ sister, called me “weird”. I had an answer, and it was so simple as I knew it should be. Four letters, and with them a reputation (I‘ve since come to hate too) I was now expected to uphold: I. N. F. J.

Since that life-altering moment, the battle for my self changed. No longer did I feel as though I was thrashing my sword blindly at abstract darkness, but instead I felt as though out of nowhere a light has been turned on, my darkness illuminated, and I could see my enemies, even if sometimes the enemy was a mirror.

Sure, it’s been difficult. You try standing up for yourself after almost 20 years of living as an altruistic doormat. It’s rough, painful, exhausting, and down right tormenting at times, and I haven’t always done such a good job either. Sometimes in the battle I’ve hurt those closest to me out of my anger and pain. It’s been messy, but c’est la vie. However, I have this hope which I did not have before: I was made this way for a reason. What is that reason? Well, that’s the journey of life (something else I’ve also had to learn to enjoy). Being an INFJ should be my gift to the world. Sometimes it is a gift to myself, but sometimes it feels like my curse. Whatever the reason, I cannot change who I am no more than I can change my dark brown curls into board-straight white hair.

Yes, some days, most days, I hate being an INFJ. I wish I could shut down and not feel or think so much just like everyone keeps telling me to. But I can’t. And that’s okay. I like who I am, and I can’t wait to see who I become because I am so much more than four letters. I am me. And that’s enough.