No One is Alone

I’ve had something on my mind for a while now, but I’m not sure where this musing is going to take me.

However, before I begin, let me first say this is purely contemplative. Nothing I’m about to write will be definitive. It could even be discussed, and I am curious what others think. My own thoughts are just one perspective, my observations skewed by my own arbitrary, ontological lenses. That said, I could be wrong, daresay very wrong, about what I’m considering.

There are a few themes I find within the online MBTI culture regarding INFJs, one which is the incessant need to remind everyone how unique or rare we are. I’ve already stated my opinion on that topic.

The other, and the inspiration behind this post, is our need for solitude, etc., which applies to all introverts, not just INFJs.

I’m ambivalent to this supposed “need”. On the one hand, as an INFJ, I know how vital my solitude is. However, I find that too often it unhealthily veers into isolation, and this is not only a personal observation, but something I’ve noted subtly within our cultural language.

(By the way, I have no direction, so the continuation will be a bit of a ramble. This is your final warning.)

Of course, none of us know each other outside the Internet. It’s definitely one-dimensional. We think we know each other due to our shared MBTI classification. However, even then, we each have personal histories, families, ethnicities, stories, environments, cultures, etc. which vary from person to person. We know none of that, usually. Just a presumed knowledge based on our own experiences of how we similarly interact with the world. Only (using INFJs as an example since its easiest, being one) apparently INFJs have so many different variations as described by this tumblr post, how can we say we truly know each other? But I digress.

Why do I say all this? Mostly to convey I realise my observations are very limited.

Let’s go back. I described our need for solitude, but I compared it to isolation. On the one hand, that’s a very obvious difference. However, for posterity’s sake, let’s define some of those differences.

Solitude is withdrawing for limited amounts of time solely for the need to allow our overwhelmed senses, which were exposed to an array of stimuli in the outside world, to calm down, which in turn quiets our usually overactive minds. Again, the key word there is limited, which I think is the contrast.

Isolation does not limit withdrawal. It is an unhealthy version of solitude, the dark side of this need. Just as we need food to be sustained, too much food can lead to and cause health problems such as obesity, type 2 diabetes, heart disease, and more.

Isolation does not let others in, but cuts oneself off from all other sources in an attempt to become self-sustaining, self-sufficient, and independent like a lone island. Only didn’t someone once say, “No man is an island?”

Personally, I have struggled with isolating myself. This is a trait of an unhealthy INFJ, and it’s something I think we need to discuss more, not our rarity.

While there are a plethora of reasons for my isolation, I think the primary one was the avoidance of pain inflicted by others whom I’ve loved or cared for, ones whom I gave pieces of myself to, but such affection, such trust was betrayed.

This included family, friends, mentors, anyone. No one was safe from this crime. That is why eventually, I cut myself off from everyone in self-preservation, in an attempt to stop the source of pain.

Now this, I think, is a human condition, not merely a struggle INFJs endure. I just think we INFJs probably feel the pain more deeply because we love so deeply.

And it’s not that we ever expect anything in return. In fact, we [INFJs] prefer to lavish, not receive. I sometimes still find it difficult to receive love from others, though I have gotten better. I think it’s partially my habits of isolation which are to blame for this characteristic deficit I’m still learning to overcome.

Interestingly enough, all of these thoughts stem from conversations I’ve had with my rabbi. It was a rather difficult pill to swallow when he looked me in the eye one day and asked me, “Why are you so difficult to love?” Sometimes the sting of his question is still there.

However, in that moment, I couldn’t respond. I stood there in flabbergasted silence because…he was right. And if I admitted that to him, then that would mean I would have to pry open my sealed heart and let him in. I would have to trust him. Of course, as Hashem would have it, when he asked me that question, I was enduring one of the most excruciatingly painful times of my life, and I didn’t think I had a heart left because of it.

But that’s the amazing thing. That’s the miracle. That’s the mercy of Hashem.

I heard what my rabbi said to me, and I allowed myself to be rightfully, truthfully accused. I stood there in my silence and accepted what he said as truth. I could not hide, even though I wanted to, so much.

Oh, believe me, it hurt, like a surgeon prodding an open wound. I had all these thoughts wildly racing through my mind: defensive arguments, explanations, reasonings behind my behaviour. But even if my pain was legitimate, I was still wrong. And I knew that. How?

C. S. Lewis, of blessed memory, was a brilliant man. He is probably one of the authors who has influenced me most in my life. I treasure his teachings like the pearls of wisdom that they are. One such pearl, which came to mind in this confrontational moment with my rabbi, was a quote of his.

“To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable.”

And that’s how I knew.

Thus, in that moment, I knew I needed to change. I wasn’t sure what nor how, but I needed to. And I allowed myself to do it slowly, over time, as much time as I needed. A life of isolation is not cured overnight, and I was experiencing more pain than I should at that moment from other circumstances. I knew it would be a slow transition, and I trusted Hashem would show me the way. He was the only one who had not failed. Ever.

It’s been about a year since that moment, and so much has changed in my life. I’m definitely not 100% cured yet, but I have seen the irrefutable value in allowing others to love me, to care for me, to let them in, and in return, I now have a love to give that I did not know was possible. I thought I could love so easily before, but not like this. It’s all so overwhelmingly blessed and beautiful, and I am so grateful to Hashem from saving me from my own darkness. None of this was possible without Him.

So what’s my point? Do I have one?

Actually, yes. I do, or rather I discovered one, so to speak, as I wrote out my thoughts. (I love those “A-ha!” moments I have when writing. It takes me somewhere I would never have considered unless I formulated musings into words.)

An illustrious man named Stephen Sondheim once wrote a song, No One is Alone. It’s featured in his musical Into the Woods (a personal favourite, naturally), and some of the lyrics read,

“No one acts alone, careful. No one is alone. People make mistakes, holding to their own, thinking they’re alone…Things will come out right now, we can make it so. Someone is on your side, no one is alone.”

(Honestly, you should give the whole song a listen, then to make it better, listen to the entire musical.)

As the song says, “No one is alone.” We were not created for isolation. We can’t survive in it. Slowly, we surely will die. If not physically, some part of us, whether mentally or emotionally, will shrivel up over time and perish like flowers withering in the heat of the sun.

A person who understands themselves, who knows themselves, who knows the difference between isolation and solitude, also knows and values the benefit of trusting others, of letting them in. It is only together we can become all we were meant to be.

Let us then – INFJs, introverts, extroverts, men, women, all of us – in our journeying remember we are not alone. Yes, we are each unique, rare, our own person, and no one can be us, no one can live our story but ourselves. But like a thread woven into a tapestry, we cannot see the greater pattern being designed (Stephen Schwartz, The Prince of Egypt – Through Heaven’s Eyes). Without each thread, no matter how seemingly miniscule, the tapestry cannot be complete.

In your life, wherever you are, whomever you are, remember: you are not alone. Don’t hide yourself away. We need you. No one can be you but you.

Share your light.