As we've established, in the Meyers-Briggs Test Indicator, I am an INFJ. Unfortunately, most Americans are either an ESTJ or an ESFJ.
Being an INFJ in a non-INFJ world is like scuba diving. If I have enough energy, I can turn that energy into an oxygen tank, and float around, admire the views and meet the inhabitants. Of course, eventually, I run out of oxygen and have to resurface into my world. If I don't have energy, though, I'm basically holding my breath, seeing how long I can last without passing out, going mad, and/or dying.
Here's an example: a phone call with my dad. As an ESTJ, he does not speak my language. I speak his, but I prefer to speak mine.
Dad: "How are you?"
My response, if I were an ESTJ, would be "Well, I feel kind of awful, but I'm going to see how much I can get done before I need to rest, and by the way did you see/hear about (insert three news stories) and can you believe the weather is (insert whatever the weather is doing.)
My INFJ, and therefore, natural response: "Ok."
Dad: "What's up?"
Me as an ESTJ: "Well, I woke up, caught up on email and social media while doing my blue light winter depression treatment, had some chocolate milk, took my pills, and went to the bathroom, but not in that order. Now I'm in the studio, trying to get something done while I have energy, and you're interrupting me."
Me as an INFJ: "Nothing." (Because even though all of the above happened, none of it mattered enough to be worth the energy to speak it.)
Dad: "How's Percie?"
Me as an INFJ: "Fine, I guess. I haven't seen her."
At this point, I can tell I'm driving him as crazy as he's driving me. An ESTJ would have gone downstairs first thing in the morning to check on the cat, but, again, that's a waste of energy. If Percie wants to interact, she'll either come up stairs or she'll yell at me to come down. In fact, I think Percie might be an INFJ, too. She can spend 23 hours asleep and/or ignoring the world, and then, for one hour, wants constant interaction. After that, she wants to curl up for another 23 hours and not talk. I totally understand. After I'm extremely social, even with people I adore, I need an hour or two in a room with the curtains drawn, a chocolate bar, and absolute silence.
Speaking of curtains, ESTJs will open curtains in the morning, because that's what you do in the mornings. INFJs open the curtains if they want to look out, or if their INFJ cat wants to look out. An ESTJ answers the phone because it rings. I answer the phone if I want to (or need to) talk to the person who is calling. (A big INFJ shout-out to whoever invented caller id. That's a damn fine invention. I'm also fond of live chat.)
An ESTJ might say, "Tell me about your day."
An INFJ will say "Tell me how you felt, what you thought, what you read between the lines, what they didn't say, and if possible, what you dreamed last night and what you think it means. Tell me about something that matters. Or tell me something funny because otherwise meaningless chatter can be amusing if it's funny. But don't talk to me for an hour and a half about nothing that matters, has no substance, and is not even funny simply because you want to fend off silence."
See, we INFJs aren't afraid of silence. In fact, we know that silence, in addition to a respite of conversation, is a conversation all itself. It's an intangible conversation, carried on waves of energy instead of sound, but it's still a conversation.
Friday, February 22, 2013
Sunday, February 10, 2013
Sean
I knew Sean most of my childhood. We went to the same hippie/intellectual/do-it-yourself cooperative charter school back before charter schools were common. I don't think we were always in the same class, but the school was small enough that you pretty much knew everyone. We were in kindergarten together, I'm certain, and in fifth and sixth grades together.
Sean was tall and athletic. He was an incredible artist. He specialized in intricate and patterned geometric drawings that the other kids then wanted to learn. He was cool because he didn't try to be. He was smart and funny, but also kind of reserved. He listened more than he spoke. I knew him, but I didn't. I wish I had paid more attention.
I remember in sixth grade we didn't have a cafeteria, but ate in our classroom. Sean would get his milk, stand next to the trash, drink the milk in one, long pull, and toss the carton in the trash. I think one day someone brought in a quart or bought extra milk cartons to see how much he could drink. I'm vague on the details. I only remember he met the challenge.
I can imagine Sean in a dozen careers--attorney, psychologist, software engineer, architect, doctor, dotcom millionaire. But none of that happened because, on March 1st, 1994, he was killed by a drunk driver with multiple DUIs and a suspended driver's license. The other night, I thought, "It's almost twenty years since Sean was killed." Turns out it's almost nineteen. Nineteen years. He only lived seventeen.
As I reread press clippings, I came across a quote from another high school student: "Sean was honorable." That may sound like a strange thing for one teenage boy to say about another, but it resonated with me. Sean was honorable. He was fair in a way kids rarely are. In fact, if there had ever been a playground dispute, and we kids needed to choose an arbitrator, Sean would have been everyone's choice. We would have all trusted him to listen to both sides and decide what was fair, not favoring friends and not caring about how it would affect him socially.
Back when the veil between the worlds was thin for me and all sorts of spirits came through to me, Sean was one of them. Normally, I have this theory that spirits don't concern themselves with physical things, and I've had plenty of spirits show up when I was in the tub. Still, when as a grown woman, I stepped out of a tub and reached for a towel, all very Rubenesque, I was startled to sense the energy of a boy I had known since kindergarten. And I said, "Sean! I'm naked! Get out of here! Come back when I'm dressed!" He didn't come back, but I swear I heard him laughing. And it was so Sean because he was the kind of person who could pull a practical joke on you, and, rather than being embarrassed, you would laugh, and feel somewhat flattered that he'd chosen you.
The night of the accident, a group of high school students were on the shoulder of the highway, changing a flat tire. As the car, driven by a drunk driver, veered onto the shoulder, the other kids jumped out of the way. Only Sean was struck. This image haunts me. One of my clearest memories of Sean was playing dodgeball. You know, someone throws the ball into the circle, once you're hit, you're out of the game. (I was usually the first one out.) Sean, though, used to drive us all to frustration. He was so agile and focused that usually the recess bell would end before Sean would get hit in dodgeball. Even though he was closest to the car that night, part of me can't believe he was the one who couldn't evade it.
As morbid as it sounds, I've never been able to shake the image of how that last moment must have been. I see him in the headlights, the car speeding and yet time slowing down, and Sean trying to jump out of the way. It has merged with the last real image I had of Sean. Our grade school class got together for a reunion, I think right before high school. As things wound down, a bunch of kids played basketball. Sean, of course, was in the thick of it. I remember glancing over my shoulder, seeing Sean in the air, going for a lay-up, all grace and finesse and promise.
And so, for me, Sean is always in flight.
Sean was tall and athletic. He was an incredible artist. He specialized in intricate and patterned geometric drawings that the other kids then wanted to learn. He was cool because he didn't try to be. He was smart and funny, but also kind of reserved. He listened more than he spoke. I knew him, but I didn't. I wish I had paid more attention.
I remember in sixth grade we didn't have a cafeteria, but ate in our classroom. Sean would get his milk, stand next to the trash, drink the milk in one, long pull, and toss the carton in the trash. I think one day someone brought in a quart or bought extra milk cartons to see how much he could drink. I'm vague on the details. I only remember he met the challenge.
I can imagine Sean in a dozen careers--attorney, psychologist, software engineer, architect, doctor, dotcom millionaire. But none of that happened because, on March 1st, 1994, he was killed by a drunk driver with multiple DUIs and a suspended driver's license. The other night, I thought, "It's almost twenty years since Sean was killed." Turns out it's almost nineteen. Nineteen years. He only lived seventeen.
As I reread press clippings, I came across a quote from another high school student: "Sean was honorable." That may sound like a strange thing for one teenage boy to say about another, but it resonated with me. Sean was honorable. He was fair in a way kids rarely are. In fact, if there had ever been a playground dispute, and we kids needed to choose an arbitrator, Sean would have been everyone's choice. We would have all trusted him to listen to both sides and decide what was fair, not favoring friends and not caring about how it would affect him socially.
Back when the veil between the worlds was thin for me and all sorts of spirits came through to me, Sean was one of them. Normally, I have this theory that spirits don't concern themselves with physical things, and I've had plenty of spirits show up when I was in the tub. Still, when as a grown woman, I stepped out of a tub and reached for a towel, all very Rubenesque, I was startled to sense the energy of a boy I had known since kindergarten. And I said, "Sean! I'm naked! Get out of here! Come back when I'm dressed!" He didn't come back, but I swear I heard him laughing. And it was so Sean because he was the kind of person who could pull a practical joke on you, and, rather than being embarrassed, you would laugh, and feel somewhat flattered that he'd chosen you.
The night of the accident, a group of high school students were on the shoulder of the highway, changing a flat tire. As the car, driven by a drunk driver, veered onto the shoulder, the other kids jumped out of the way. Only Sean was struck. This image haunts me. One of my clearest memories of Sean was playing dodgeball. You know, someone throws the ball into the circle, once you're hit, you're out of the game. (I was usually the first one out.) Sean, though, used to drive us all to frustration. He was so agile and focused that usually the recess bell would end before Sean would get hit in dodgeball. Even though he was closest to the car that night, part of me can't believe he was the one who couldn't evade it.
As morbid as it sounds, I've never been able to shake the image of how that last moment must have been. I see him in the headlights, the car speeding and yet time slowing down, and Sean trying to jump out of the way. It has merged with the last real image I had of Sean. Our grade school class got together for a reunion, I think right before high school. As things wound down, a bunch of kids played basketball. Sean, of course, was in the thick of it. I remember glancing over my shoulder, seeing Sean in the air, going for a lay-up, all grace and finesse and promise.
And so, for me, Sean is always in flight.
Wednesday, February 6, 2013
Weighty Matters
Governor Chris Christie and I have three things in common: we both think President Obama is hell of a guy, we're both overweight, and neither of us have any interest in other people's feedback about our weight.
A little background: I almost starved to death twice due to Crohn's disease. The first time was due to a misdiagnosis, the second just because we couldn't get it under control. Thankfully it is now, but, yeah...I got very, very thin...down to 80 pounds the first time and 100 pounds the second time, though I was sicker (like ICU sick) the second time because I was so anemic.
What I learned during that time:
I really like to eat.
I would rather eat than be thin.
I also decided that if I could ever eat what I wanted to eat, that's what I was going to do. (Actually, there are still a ton of foods I can't eat in spite of the Crohn's being under control. Ironically, a lot of them are fruits and vegetables.) And that's what I did.
Ultimately, after a few months of me doing things like oh, having a large slice of apple pie for breakfast, lasagna for lunch, lasagna for dinner, and another slice of apple pie for dessert, I gained back that weight and then some and people around me, including my doctors, started saying "Uh....."
And I said, "I don't care."
Of course, I started to gain weight, especially since I also have CFS/ME (known by most people as chronic fatigue syndrome, though that's a dumb name and we're working to get it changed.) One of the things about CFS/ME is that exercise--even light exercise--makes it worse. So, yes, I have a medical excuse not to exercise, which is kind of cool.
What I don't like about being overweight is that total strangers make judgments about me. Like they think I'm lazy (no, but see the chronic fatigue syndrome part), or I'm not motivated (uh yeah....try getting that past anyone who actually knows me) or I'm unhappy.
Quite the opposite, I'm the happiest I've been in years. And, except for things I don't believe in like body mass index, I'm the healthiest I've been in years. Even my doctors have to agree with this. I may be overweight, but I have
low blood pressure
low blood sugar
low cholesterol
a healthy heart
This summer, my energy level was higher than it had been in twenty years and I was walking much longer distances than I did back in my skinny days. And, whenever someone gives me a look or makes a comment, um....I laugh all the way to the bakery.
A little background: I almost starved to death twice due to Crohn's disease. The first time was due to a misdiagnosis, the second just because we couldn't get it under control. Thankfully it is now, but, yeah...I got very, very thin...down to 80 pounds the first time and 100 pounds the second time, though I was sicker (like ICU sick) the second time because I was so anemic.
What I learned during that time:
I really like to eat.
I would rather eat than be thin.
I also decided that if I could ever eat what I wanted to eat, that's what I was going to do. (Actually, there are still a ton of foods I can't eat in spite of the Crohn's being under control. Ironically, a lot of them are fruits and vegetables.) And that's what I did.
Ultimately, after a few months of me doing things like oh, having a large slice of apple pie for breakfast, lasagna for lunch, lasagna for dinner, and another slice of apple pie for dessert, I gained back that weight and then some and people around me, including my doctors, started saying "Uh....."
And I said, "I don't care."
Of course, I started to gain weight, especially since I also have CFS/ME (known by most people as chronic fatigue syndrome, though that's a dumb name and we're working to get it changed.) One of the things about CFS/ME is that exercise--even light exercise--makes it worse. So, yes, I have a medical excuse not to exercise, which is kind of cool.
What I don't like about being overweight is that total strangers make judgments about me. Like they think I'm lazy (no, but see the chronic fatigue syndrome part), or I'm not motivated (uh yeah....try getting that past anyone who actually knows me) or I'm unhappy.
Quite the opposite, I'm the happiest I've been in years. And, except for things I don't believe in like body mass index, I'm the healthiest I've been in years. Even my doctors have to agree with this. I may be overweight, but I have
low blood pressure
low blood sugar
low cholesterol
a healthy heart
This summer, my energy level was higher than it had been in twenty years and I was walking much longer distances than I did back in my skinny days. And, whenever someone gives me a look or makes a comment, um....I laugh all the way to the bakery.
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