Wasted Love: Raging INFJ Pt. 4

I think all my Raging INFJ posts have lead to this point, to this dramatic declaration which beats at the heart of all INFJs.

We despise door slamming, letting go, saying goodbye — we rage for one reason and one reason alone: we fear our love being wasted.

As Mirren so poignantly reminded me on Twitter, “When I love, I love.”

Her words sparked a burgeoning idea, which I felt compelled to write, knowing all my own rage lead to this interconnected epiphany.

When an INFJ says, “When I love, I love,” what they mean is, “I give my whole self to this love, allowing the sparks to ignite my soul in a wreathing, consuming flame until all that’s left is love.”

It might not be mature or well executed; we are all of us still learning. Though, you will never find a fervency as fierce as ours. As an INFJ, if there’s one thing we can deliver on, it’s passion.

Thus, if our love was real and true, should it not have avoided a conclusion which leads to pain, separation, or loss? That our love would return to us seemingly null and void? That it’s worth was found wanting, our commitment lacking? That we would feel the need to either let go or completely cut out someone from our lives?

Even saying goodbye, when the time calls for it, for the parting of two friends towards their respective, diverting paths veers too closely to this similar place of loss and despair. Cannot such pain be circumvented?

I can’t count how many times my love has been scorned or spurned.

While there are the usual accusations — I’m too intense, too raw, too inappropriate, too passionate, too complicated, too much — most times I’m left with a vague emptiness shrouding my judgement in an impenetrable ambiguity. I’m left with no explanation at all but my own intuitions, leaving me with a lack of desired mutuality.

Thus, the question(s) we face when either:

We are pushed to our breaking point and must cut someone out of our lives (door slam);
We realise our efforts have been ignored or neglected, unavoidable distance becoming a more favourable outcome (letting go);
Our path no longer follows to same course as our friend (saying goodbye);

What was it all for? What did it all mean? Was it worth it?

Every single time I have faced any of theses questions screaming in my soul, demanding an answer, no matter which of the three scenarios I endured, the answer is, yes.

Always.

Why? Because love is never wasted.

You see, if the love is real, if it is true; if the love believes all things, endures all things, hopes all things — then it is a gift. A gift which cannot removed for it never ends. A gift which in itself becomes its own entity existing unto itself.

Even in the face of tragedy, of betrayal, love endures.

It is what stings our eyes with tears years after the fatal blow was dealt; why we must occasionally pick ourselves up out of the dust, shake ourselves from the clinging lies and painful memories, and remind ourselves to put one foot in front of the other, to move on.

Even if it is in but a memory, our loves still exists.

Besides, do we ourselves not grow from such experiences? Thus, if jilted by the receiver, do we still not learn from the love we give? Our capacity expanded to one day shower our affection on one more worthy of our love?

Furthermore, if we were to have never created such memories before the pain and misery poisoned the relationship, would it have been better? To have never shared anything with the other person, would it have been better?

For me, the answer I give myself is, “No; it would not have been better.”

I think no greater words than those of Alfred, Lord Tennyson can describe what keeps me loving, keeps me wasting my love, no matter the cost: