I follow Terry McMillan on Twitter and she had a wonderful quote today …
“Some folks in our lives should be in ink. Others, penciled in.”
As an introvert, I don’t make friends very easily. I know a lot of people, but true friends I can count on one hand and still have fingers to spare.
I’m fairly hard to get to know. Friendly enough, but prefer my own intense inner chatter to the small talk and general pleasantries that are required when trying to bond with people and create rapport. The friends that I have are those that continue to come closer no matter how much I push away, and those that follow me when I try to run.
I make friends like a wounded animal. Tentatively. Unsure if you’re trying to help or to harm.
In the same way a spy on a secret mission has this incredibly exciting other life they can’t talk about, I too tend to go through the friendship game wearing one conventional disguise or another, never giving too much away (except on Twitter where I over share to a phenomenal degree) and eventually vanish from peoples lives without even a goodbye – always thinking my impact on them must have been so minimal anyway they won’t even notice I’ve gone.
This has been a recurring theme in my romantic relationships too. You can be complex, mysterious and aloof up to a point, beyond that you’re just too much like hard work.
The irony is, I’m actually a very easy nut to crack (especially if you know how to Google ‘INFP’).
The vast majority of people I know will have ‘penciled’ me in. That doesn’t bother me. What does matter is that the people I love and care about write my name in ink.
Feeling incredibly sad today. One of the unpleasant side effects of being an INFP.
Only way out is to sleep it off.
I’ll be as good as new in the morning.
Sometimes the heart can’t cope with all the things it doesn’t have.