The Mechanisms of Life

Looking to Myers-Briggs for some background personality, I am undoubtedly fall into the mold of an INFP. I am an introverted individual who relies on her intuition to determine what I know, my feelings are primary to my being, and I choose to perceive and understand rather than judge. I am described as an idealist, a dreamy individual who spends their time frolicking through the clouds holding on to precious dreams and shedding tears when a flower welts. I am here to say, as a genuine INFP, that this is accurate. Now I am not saying it is so for everyone or 24/7, I have the capacity to make harsh judgements and to push aside my feelings, but in my heart that is not who I am. I am proud to be the starry eyed girl tying balloons to herself and hoping to fly away. Though I am indefinitely proud of who I am, I admit to there being faults to my existence, faults I wrestle with constantly and that stem from my very nature.

Before we begin this journey, I want to make one thing abundantly clear: this commentary is unique to myself and yet universally applicable to anyone who identifies in a fashion similar to mine. If this life sounds nothing like yours, so be it. I both envy and pity you for that which you miss out on. So without further ado, I introduce you to my life, a life of ordered chaos.

A typical day for me begins with a warm embrace from my bed holding me in as the evil external forces aim to drag me out. My alarm going off causes me to fumble to shut it off so I can go back to sleep. Nearly a half hour after my first alarm has gone off, I pull myself out from under the covers. I have maybe 20 minutes now to get myself out the door, so my morning routine is rushed and simple, doing what I need to do and spending no time on the unnecessary excesses of life. I choose to feed my cat over myself, leaving food to the afternoon. I never have much of an appetite in the mornings. Stumbling into my first class, hoping to make it in on time, I exchange friendly jokes with the girl on my left. We are, what I call, circumstantial friends. I am comfortable speaking with her and talking about a variety of things, but I only see her when circumstance brings us together. I go from class to class, keeping my eyes down and a friendly disposition up. I don’t want to be remembered, I don’t want to stand out. I spend my day in classes where I fail to find a way to express myself and instead turn to writing down my thoughts, feelings, hidden desires all while hoping the girl who sits besides me doesn’t read all my secrets.

As the school day concludes I come alive. Often times my day does not end there but instead involves extracurricular activities that simultaneously excite and bore me. Whenever possible i enjoy myself a lengthy midday nap. This nap, often edged onwards from the eventual consumption of food, is normally quite satisfying despite the ramifications of decreased productivity and future difficulty finding rest. In the evenings I often have a practice or work or do some sort of activity, generally physical. That leaves me returning home, late in the evening, starting to explore any sedentary hobbies and beginning to look at my preparatory work for the following day, leaving me up all hours of the night.

Now that’s a look at the mechanical structure of a typical day of mine, however I have never cared much for mechanics. My days are characterized by emotional outbursts and an overworked yet stimulated mind.

Most days I struggle to leave the warm embrace of my bed for I fear leaving the undeniable safety that my fortress of blankets and pillows provide. As I urge myself to get ready for the day I find it impossible to put an effort into the making of myself for a fear of standing out. I do enough to not be noticed, not because I do not wish to be remembered but because I am incapable of giving myself recognition and fear having to cope with recognition from others.

I am incredibly in touch with my feelings. So in touch that they are overwhelming and unpredictable, opening a fountain of tears when I cognitively do not need to cry, but a constant emotional release is a necessity to my function. I am on edge all day for a simple look can make my eyes water and a sullen thought is a sentence of death by drowning. I have become an expert at drying my eyes and hiding the tears in situations in which they appear as unwelcome guests, more so than your estranged, drunken ex on your wedding day. It is a struggle to keep my calm and unassuming persona while my emotional side is a twenty car pile up in rush hour, with no emergency crews in sight.

It is a constant fearful battle of being me without revealing any aspect of myself. I sit through my classes and distract myself with my own adventures in writing. As I type this my history teacher is going on about the peasants of France who are disconnected from their nation and are the cause for the Revolution and while I absorb every detail it pains me to sit and listen at the speed at which we travel through past centuries. I remind myself that class participation counts and that the majority of this classroom would currently be unable to distinguish my voice. I raise my hand and answer a question geared at a child years my junior. A satisfactory attempt at participation that will hopefully resonate and allow myself to stay afloat.

My days exhaust me. The turmoil of my emotions and my feelings take their toll on my body and leave me emotionally exhausted. The high activity lifestyle I lead leaves me physically exhausted. The intellectual boredom I experience as a result of under stimulation in my day to day tasks leaves me cognitively exhausted. Overall, living and interacting exhausts me.

While this is entirely true, it also excites me. I enjoy learning when it is done at a pace and a method of interest to me. My life, on paper, appears to be a struggle of conflicting extremes operating on myself and shaping my life. Nothing I do I do in gray. For myself, I need it to be black or white. My life is not all black nor all white, it is an intricate pattern of the two not unlike the struggle between black and white that is evident on these pages. I never know, day to day, which colour will dominate my existence. It makes it hard to find a balance, which is probably why I often fall. However, the days in which I hold up make it worth the days in which I fall. I couldn’t imagine living any other way than walking on the thin line between success and failure. This balancing act keeps me on my toes, and ready for whatever the next obstacle I face may be. It may not be a life suited for everyone, but it is a life suited to me.