Advocacy and Functions

This is an INFP related post.

Why do INFPs suck at activism despite being value-oriented persons?

Well, it finally dawned upon me why that is. It’s because we (INFPs) are mediators. What that means is that we like to look at all sides of an issue before coming to a conclusion. I often find that when I’m faced with an argument between two sides I carefully listen to both sides and try to make sure I have gotten all the facts first before concluding which side is right (if any).

The problem is that I’m never quite sure if I have all the facts. I don’t trust my Te (facts) and can end up endlessly ruminating over an issue. It whole-heartedly sucks. Sometimes I think it would be best if I just picked a side… but I know that if I choose a side I could potentially discredit some valuable points that the other side has to offer. Then I would ultimately be wrong.

So what is more important here: Conviction (advocacy) or Truth?

I say Truth. But Truth can take a very long time to find, and we may never be entirely sure we know it.

It’s easy for an ESTJ to choose a side because they cut corners. It’s not easy for INFPs. Every crevice of Truth needs to be explored, and for this reason we take an egregiously long time to come to conclusions.

Is it so bad if we come out right in the end?

I think that no matter how long it takes… we must search for Truth, and that means remaining open to new information that may appear. It is time consuming, but it’s worth it.


Patriarchy Is Dead

And those very words were the stake that killed it.

If Nietzsche killed religion by declaring that “God is dead,” then the same method can be applied to any outdated ideology.

For instance, the more we focus on female body ideals as the problem, the more it continues to be a problem. Let’s instead say this, taken from Abraham Hicks’ website:

And watch our very world change in an instant.

Yes, sometimes it feels like lying. It can feel inauthentic to declare something having happened, which hadn’t. When that occurs I turn the idea around and declare the situation presently happening to be a positive one, even if it normally would not be looked at such. I don’t subtitle this blog “Alternative Perspectives” for no reason.

I’m here to play with perspectives, good or bad, right or wrong, normal or deranged.

I’m here to embody the Goddess of Dichotomy, Pitambaradevi, who turns each things into its opposite: sorrow into joy, wealth into poverty, success into failure, and so on.

So here I stand and declare my suffering my secret joy. I declare that, yes, I am petty for having trolled an IG model’s page with my bf last night, and I am perfectly okay with being petty and cruel. I’m owning how I feel. To be authentic isn’t always nice and it isn’t always pleasant. Sometimes we need to authentically declare FUCK THE WORLD.

Today I am not bothered by how many people I have offended by speaking my dark and bitter truth. I gave my feelings air, and I feel the lighter for it.

Today I imagined I punched the living shit of this woman on the punching bags today:

And normally that would be looked at as cruel and insane, but it was the motivation I needed to exercise, so that’s one good thing. The other thing is that I got my aggression out and felt calmer afterward. Thirdly, I was being authentic. I did not hold back my anger. I thoroughly expressed it. The peons I have offended by my “bad” attitude are the very people who lack integrity. They are too afraid to express their own rage, so they condemn those who do. I’m not holding anything back anymore. And if I make mistakes and say some things I later regret–good. Because at least I said it and got something out, and learned a lesson from it.

There’s more harm in keeping silent. There’s more harm in pretending niceties to keep from upsetting the apple cart. Because you end up never expressing how you feel because the risk of hurting people’s feelings terrifies you into a self-made cage.

What do I have against this woman and SO many like her? Because she says she’s empowering women to take control of their lives, but all she’s actually advocating is “booty gains.” Big asses: a beauty ideal created by men, for men. This is what modern day female empowerment looks like? Get real! Centuries ago women fought for their rights–literally fought. Today’s feminists pose in bikinis and talk about having sex with whomever they want like cheap sluts. It’s superficial. It barely touches the core of female issues, which is significantly more important than our bodies and what we do with them.

She’s so simple-minded it hurts.


I’ve always wanted to be the kind of person who can call people out on their bullshit. The issue usually being that once the words emanate out of my mouth, they sound nothing like the original text and I end up sounding stupid. I believe this happens when I try to express myself overall. Everything makes sense in my head, but once the words roll off my tongue I just sound like a fool and it sounds nothing like the original thought. It’s so frustrating.

People say that I express myself a lot, and very well, but truthfully, the only reason I’m so expressive is because I keep retrying ways to say what I’m trying to say. I keep failing so I keep trying again. I end up sounding like a broken record or a train wreck, or just melodramatic and annoying.

People say that my self-talk is negative. That’s another issue that’s lost in translation. I do have a lot of negative self-talk, but I also have a lot of positive self-talk. But for whatever reason I’m less expressive of the positive stuff. Maybe it’s because I’m afraid it sounds arrogant and I don’t want to be attacked for thinking well of myself. Maybe expressing only the negatives is a comfort zone. Or maybe—and most likely so–I just enjoy being a contrarian.

I dislike how negativity-phobic society has become. It used to be that in the late 1800s much of poetry and literature was deep, dark and harrowing. Well, to be fair, those kinds of poets were the “poetes maudits” (outcasts) and only become famous posthumously, but doesn’t that say something about our society? We’re quick to praise something which gives us immediate satisfaction, and we shit on anything discomforting and unpleasant; but the moment some time has passed, we realize that the unpleasant was necessary for us to hear. Those very poets and philosophers who were once criticized for being garish and harsh and flagrant, and who died anonymous and penniless, are later praised to high heaven for speaking the truth.

Then I guess I must continue to express myself because eventually something will come of it. Saying pleasant things now will get me likes today; but speaking truth will get me immortalized tomorrow.

Perpetually Unmotivated

And unfocused.

Like it’s my fucking job. I don’t know why I can’t just get it together and stop with all of the distractions–the distractions from my real work.

For instance, my spiritual work. I’ve been seriously falling off that wagon. Ever since I got a full-time job I just feel too exhausted to meditate for long hours. I manage 15 minutes in the morning, if even that.

Then take my fitness and diet goals for instance. I have been doing kickboxing for a year now and I do it on average 3 times a week. But it isn’t even the entirely best exercise for my dosha (I am Vata-Pitta… or maybe just all Vata, actually). I haven’t been motivated to change my fitness regime.

When it comes to diet I have certain principles, but I haven’t even been sticking to them. I have ethical and health concerns regarding eating meat, yet I still eat it. I still grab chocolates at work. And if it’s FREE food–forget it! Where is my willpower? I feel so weak, and I’m mad at myself.

I am not where I want to be in my primary life goals. I feel defeated and therefore finding motivation to try harder is not coming up. I’m sick and tired of my own bullshit.

I have been falling back on old habits: scrolling through IG and envying “better looking” and more popular women. Such as Danielle Robertson. Look at her!

And look at me:

If I don’t look like a toadstool in comparison to her, I don’t know what…

And how does she maintain such perfection! I bet even her shit smells like roses (I’m being facetious, but still).

My measurements are 34-28-36. So basically, I am a pancake. Sigh.

I’m too tired to even go on writing. I don’t know when or how I’ll ever get my self-esteem back. I surely miss it. I do not believe I deserve it.

I believe I am a bad person, and that I deserve hell, punishment, death, et al. 💀

Something Always Has to be Sacrificed

And right now that’s breakfast.

So I can make time in my busy day to write. This is something I wish I did more often, but I have found millions of reasons (excuses) not to:

1. I don’t have time.

2. I’m not good at writing. Why bother?

3. No one will read it.

4. I’ll sound like a fool.

To name a few…

My life is a revolving wheel of getting up at 5am; to meditate, perform my Lakshmi puja, sing a hymn to Ra and give an offering of water to Him and all the other deities who inhabit my room, get dressed for work, clean the apartment, amongst other busy-work.

Minus the spiritual aspect of my day, my days are mundane and focused on work and as a result I am sad, suffocated, stifled and short-fused.

I have been losing my patience more often than usual. I am frustrated with my lack of creativity and lack of a creative outlet. I am taking too long to save money and finally leave New York. My dreams are growing weaker with every day I do not feed them. I want to get up and run. I want to get up and run.

Who is this being I have become? She passes for normal. She looks like her shit is together. She looks well-groomed and fit and works out on the regular. She has a job. But she… she is an imposter.

When I did become this basic bitch I wonder. I am…

Well, time’s run out to keep writing.

Well, that and I’ve lost fuel, momentum, motivation. This journal entry is garbage and I want to burn it.


A Lack of Patience

I’m even impatient with writing this. I wish I could somehow express everything I mean to express instantaneously.

I’m frustrated with how life turned out–my life. I’m 31 years and and I have a standard job. I’m a social worker. Well, it’s not entirely standard, but I ended up in the field by total accident, when it was neither my passion nor something I had a degree in. And social work is hardly glamorous.

I’m living with my dad. I moved back home two years ago in an attempt to mentally, emotionally and financially recover. It took me two years to find a stable job–mostly because I wasn’t looking. I was avoiding anything mundane and “normal” in terms of work. Eventually, a series of events led to where I am now–the company for which I work, which is a good company nevertheless, but I am still not satisfied.

I have no creative outlet. Any time I begin to create or inspiration strikes I become too excited and therefore impatient. Following through all of the steps seems like too much work and inspiration falls away eventually.

Recently I met a 20-going-on-21 year old INFP boy. It feels suiting to call him a boy, because as smart and mature as he is for his age and generation, he is still wildly naive and inexperienced. And for whatever reason this boy latched on to me. To be fair, I liked him at first and sensed chemistry between us. But I always knew he was too young and that it would never work. For whatever reason–be it youthful optimism–he seems to think it could, or will.

And so I am stuck in a predicament, despite my best efforts to tell him plainly that I think we should be just be friends. Well, I’m INFP too and therefore subject to the same naïveté and hopefulness as he, and so at times he manages to convince me that we can live our lives as Romantics and artists. But in my heart of hearts, I know this is hopeless and that I just need to let him go.

It’s been going terribly recently anyway. His apartment is three blocks from my job and the rent is cheap and the lease is being renewed. The situation seemed so perfect that he almost convinced me to take a room there. At the very last minute I backed out.

My writing isn’t even as passionate as the writing of my teenage years and that of my early twenties. Writing this feels lackadaisical and sad. Reading it is cringe-worthy.

Look at my pathetic life. The best I could do is move in with a 20 year old? So what–we can can talk idly about starting a revolution, but never actually get anywhere because we’re two INFPs?

I’m getting too old for pipe dreams.

Sex between him and I has been going horribly. He looks too young to turn me on, and he’s too inexperienced to know what he’s doing, and then he looks at me for guidance but I’m neither patient nor wanting to try. I don’t have it in me to teach a young boy. I’d rather an experienced man so I can relax a little bit.

I want an ENTJ. That would be my ideal mate. I’m very attracted to TJ types because I can learn from them, and they keep me grounded and focused in the real world.

Well, that’s my dumb rant for the day.

“Happiness Is a Choice”

Then so is suffering. Although I think both statements are merely blankets and too simplistic.

I abhor positive psychology because it never touches the root of suffering enough to eradicate it–because here we are, still suffering.

And if suffering has been my choice, very well. At least I had made that choice and not had someone else choose for me. For when I hear mumbling about happiness and how to pursue it it feels as if someone is forcing me to choose how to feel.

And I do not like that at all.


I’m regretting having started this blog. Mostly because I failed to keep it cryptically anonymously like I intended to. I have put my photos up here and I feel like a fool for it. I wish I could cover up my face with spray paint or hover my arms over them in a panicked “Don’t Look, don’t look!” gesturing. Still, none of this can be unseen. And now that I have followers (something I hadn’t expected) I feel like I can no longer express myself uninhibitedly.

I’m afraid that if I give voice to some dark, bitter thoughts swirling in my cranium I will have judgments and scorn following me. So now I must tidy up my act and write wholesome, sweet things. 😑

And it makes me sick to my stomach to be anything but authentic.

These followers, I know them not, so I know not if I can trust them with these delicate, private thoughts that I have kept stuffed up in my cranium but now wish to explode verbally onto (digital) paper for relief.

I am angry. But if I dare express anger than I am nothing more than a “bitch,” and therefore contemptuous.

If I dare verbalize my grievances I am a whiner and “too sensitive,” and perceived as weak, attention seeking and “over-reactive.”

And as a woman I am given impossible standards of behavior to uphold.

“Open your legs, you’re being a prude.”

“Close your legs, you’re being a slut.”

Either way I lose.

If I am polite and friendly as girls are taught to be, I get taken advantage of.

If I express dissatisfaction and defend myself against misogyny and unwanted sexual advances, then I am reactive and a bitch. How many times has a man tried to woo me through deception, then the moment I call him out on it, it’s all, “Whoa, you got the wrong idea, ma’am!” It’s manipulative and meant to confuse me.

Well, these days I am angry and can no longer hold my tongue for it.

These girls online who parade how much they have overcome their victimhood and embraced their inner Warrior-Goddess-Queen just make me feel bad for not being where they are–that is to say healed, and in perfect harmony with myself.

It makes me angry that they can be so proud while I remain so broken. I wish I could see them as inspiration, but I see them as threats, and potential judgers of my not being where they they are…yet.

How can they be so perfect? I wonder. What is their secret? I want to know so I can heal myself and be a Warrior-Goddess-Queen as well.

Purity & Piety

My 1920s vintage Joan of Arc statue arrived the other day. When I think of Joan I think of all the things I could be, could’ve been, and could still potentially become (again)…

She represents virtue, truth, piety, purity and courage. All the things I am afraid I am not.

I wonder where I had gone wrong. Well, I cannot pinpoint the exact moment but I can outline the periods in my life where I had been brutally dragged away from my innocence and turned inside out. And how I regret those days.

I know an INFP girl, though only through the internet and via the same trade (writing). She does not know me being that she’s an INFP and lost in her own world. She’s never bothered much to respond to my commentary–all of which has been pleasant and positive toward her. I mention her because she is about 10 years my junior and still so pure and innocent, yet she often laments that. If she only knew how dear her innocence is she may not wish to waste it.

I’m 31 now and I have lived quite the life in my early 20s. Looking back now I regret almost everything. What seemed like good old fun and free-spiritedness of youth was a treacherous reprogramming of my brain that has turned my values into something quite awful.

When I was an inexperienced teenager I had a good head on my shoulders. I knew what I wanted and what I did not want, something that may have been uncommon among kids my age. I did not give way to experimentation and vice like so many of my classmates. I was a “good girl.” Yet I was absolutely miserable. It was because of the loneliness that being such a goody two shoes imbibed that I decided to change my ways and join the rankings of the “normal” people out there.

It felt a bit like falling from grace. I had lived so high up in my Ivory Tower where everything was good and holy and pure. Then I came tumbling down those porcelain blocks and dragged across the dirtied Earth.

I don’t wish to go into the all the details now, but I would like to state just how much I deeply regret ever having listened to those around me and have them shape me.

I used to be a good girl. I was once kind and loving and peace-abiding and holy. My 20s were not all awful. I fed the homeless regularly. I volunteered. I wasn’t materialistic and greedy or cruel, then.

But there has been a change in me since my late 20s, which had been the darkest period of my life to date. I remember the rage that filled my lungs in 2015. I hurled insults at nearly everyone, friends and strangers alike. In 2016 I mostly quieted down but I turned to drinking to assuage my pain. I did not want to hurt others anymore, so I hurt myself instead. I drank many a lonely nights and kept to myself.

Forget all this. This entry is languid and boring and not getting to the gist of what I mean to say (say it!).

I wish I were holy and pure and so good-hearted that I join the ranking of Joan of Arc herself. I envy how she stuck to her convictions whereas I had allowed others to mold my mind. I envy how strong and confident she was.

My biggest mistake has been allowing others to convince me that my kind-heartedness, gentleness, purity and delicateness has ever been a bad thing.

Now I’m grossly much more greedy, selfish and materialistic than I had ever been. I spend a lot of money on clothes and makeup and hair products and I look glamorous but my insides are ugly and spoiled rotten. I wish to absolve myself of my sins, to be made clean again.

And so I will create my Saint Joan of Arc altar and pray to her diligently until I have been absolved of everything.

Until I have risen out of the flames purified and new again.