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Feb. 1st, 2012


Myers-Briggs - INFJ

Counselors have an exceptionally strong desire to contribute to the welfare of others, and find great personal fulfillment interacting with people, nurturing their personal development, guiding them to realize their human potential. Although they are happy working at jobs (such as writing) that require solitude and close attention, Counselors do quite well with individuals or groups of people, provided that the personal interactions are not superficial, and that they find some quiet, private time every now and then to recharge their batteries. Counselors are both kind and positive in their handling of others; they are great listeners and seem naturally interested in helping people with their personal problems. Not usually visible leaders,
Counselors prefer to work intensely with those close to them, especially on a one-to-one basis, quietly exerting their influence behind the scenes.

Counselors are scarce, little more than three percent of the population, and can be hard to get to know, since they tend not to share their innermost thoughts or their powerful emotional reactions except with their loved ones. They are highly private people, with an unusually rich, complicated inner life. Friends or colleagues who have known them for years may find sides emerging which come as a surprise. Not that Counselors are flighty or scattered; they value their integrity a great deal, but they have mysterious, intricately woven personalities which sometimes puzzle even them.

Counselors tend to work effectively in organizations. They value staff harmony and make every effort to help an organization run smoothly and pleasantly. They understand and use human systems creatively, and are good at consulting and cooperating with others. As employees or employers, Counselors are concerned with people's feelings and are able to act as a barometer of the feelings within the organization.

Blessed with vivid imaginations, Counselors are often seen as the most poetical of all the types, and in fact they use a lot of poetic imagery in their everyday language. Their great talent for language-both written and spoken-is usually directed toward communicating with people in a personalized way. Counselors are highly intuitive and can recognize another's emotions or intentions - good or evil - even before that person is aware of them. Counselors themselves can seldom tell how they came to read others' feelings so keenly. This extreme sensitivity to others could very well be the basis of the Counselor's remarkable ability to experience a whole array of psychic phenomena.

Since Idealists tend to work for a better future for all, if things keep going badly and they lose hope they become stressed. When Idealists experience great stress, they can have muscle or sensory problems.

The Counselor can become stressed when they are required to deal with too many unexpected events or required to be too extraverted for too long a time. They can get overwhelmed if they are required to continually do very detailed work. If this happens, their muscles tighten up and they begin to see the external world through suspicious lenses. To return to normal, they need time alone to recharge and a lightening of their usual schedule. It will not help if others give them advice. Stretching exercises and calm, solitary walks will help. Says Lorraine, "I'm good at giving speeches. People see me as confident. But then they will want me to do more and more so I have no time alone and no time to recover. It's been hard, but I've learned to say 'no' because if I don't the personal consequences will be worse, and I won't be good for anything or anybody."

Beneath the quiet exterior, INFJs hold deep convictions about the weightier matters of life. Those who are activists -- INFJs gravitate toward such a role -- are there for the cause, not for personal glory or political power.

INFJs are champions of the oppressed and downtrodden. They often are found in the wake of an emergency, rescuing those who are in acute distress. INFJs may fantasize about getting revenge on those who victimize the defenseless. The concept of 'poetic justice' is appealing to the INFJ.

"There's something rotten in Denmark." Accurately suspicious about others' motives, INFJs are not easily led. These are the people that you can rarely fool any of the time. Though affable and sympathetic to most, INFJs are selective about their friends. Such a friendship is a symbiotic bond that transcends mere words.
INFJs have a knack for fluency in language and facility in communication. In addition, nonverbal sensitivity enables the INFJ to know and be known by others intimately.

Writing, counseling, public service and even politics are areas where INFJs frequently find their niche.

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Jan. 8th, 2012

La Belle Dame Sans Merci

(no subject)

I will never get married again. That is why I was working so hard to save this one. In general, I don't believe in marriage. But I believed in him. How foolish

Jan. 7th, 2012


Writer's Block: The Walking Dead

Samurai sword for close encounters, sawed off shotgun when I'm feeling particularly hateful and blood-thirsty, and some kind of automatic or semi-automatic weapon for everything else.
In case of an impending zombie apocalypse, what would be your weapon of choice, and why?

(no subject)

there's your cutCollapse )
Tidus and Yuna

(no subject)

I failed. I failed to save my marriage, I failed to save my husband from being a morphine addict, I just failed period. I never should have gotten married. How could I be so fucking stupid, to let someone get that close to me, to actually believe there is someone in this fucked up piece of shit world that I could actually trust. How pathetic - to be divorced when I'm 25. I disgust myself.

I suffer every second of every fucking day. I can't go on like this, I cannot do it. I don't even know why I'm bothering to preserve my life, I'm not even worth it anymore. Pathetic divorcee who wants to die or simply waste away into nothingness attempts to eliminate the stress in her life that has caused her to lose 20 pounds in a month, contract illnesses at least once every 2 weeks, cause harm to herself almost every day. Doesn't even make sense. I feel like I'm dying, but in the slowest, most excruciating manner humanly possible.

I'm tired of talking about this. No point.

Jan. 6th, 2012


(no subject)

I like answering this question. 

The earliest event I can remember must have been when I was 4 or 5. My family and I were living in an apartment complex somewhere in Phoenix, I no longer remember the exact location. It is inconsequential. I had been playing in the little grassy area, which was surrounded by the buildings in the complex. I remember it clearly. Brightly colored jungle gyms in a sea of sand, the texture of which I quite enjoyed underneath my bare feet. I still do. Children everywhere, playing hide and seek, or whatever fanciful things that children do. I was much more extroverted then. I believed that everyone loved me - not in a self-centered way, but as an innocent belief that I had done nothing to deserve being shunned or mistreated. I do not remember if this was actually the reality of it, but what is reality if not subjective? Anyway, I was searching the flower beds for the perfect blossom to bring to my mother, who thanked me kindly and profusely for such simple acts, when another little girl named Sarah approached me. I had already selected the perfect flower, a small yellow flower whose name I do not recall, when she asked me if she could hold it. I distinctly remember wanting her to like me, and I handed the flower over willingly, without hesitation. She tore it to pieces, and walked away as if her actions meant nothing. Maybe they didn't. I stood there, baffled for a moment by the sheer destruction and violence, and then I burst out in tears of confusion and hurt. I think I ran home and told my mother of the events that had transpired, but I do not remember that clearly. To this day, I still have no idea why she had done something so senseless, and what I had done to deserve it.

Sometimes, I reflect on this, and it seems to me that I am destined to repeat this memory over and over again. In different situations, and with different people, but always the same.
What is your earliest memory?

(no subject)

It's the loneliness that gets to me the most. The silence. The meaningless repetition. I'm starting to wonder if I even remember what it's like to live with someone else - like this room in my parents' house, where I spent 14 years of my life, was the only room I'd ever inhabited. I had wanted to paint my walls black. They are a powder blue. I had my photography, art, and the works of others on them, but I tore them all down. Some kind of vehemence for my youth. Now the walls are bare, empty. I feel as though they reflect my life. Barren. My little dog is sometimes a comfort to me. He can tell when I'm sad, or angry. He curls up against my back, and in one pathetic moment, I pretend that it is a human being. I hate myself for needing the love of others. I recognize that I should not want it as badly as I do, and yet that recognition does nothing. I miss the laughter that once reverberated in this house. My brother, Nick, had such a unique laugh - one that was both ridiculous and infectious at once. I rarely hear him laugh now, although he did let out a small chuckle on Christmas. His sadness is infectious as well, and I feel guilty for dreading his imminent eviction from his house to this one. I'm depressed enough as it is without having to ward off the anguish of others. Self-preservation feels so cold. Heartless. I was not like this before. More than anything now, I want to be on my own. I want to force myself into isolation, so that, eventually, I will need no one and nothing to comfort me. But to accomplish that, I require employment. Selling myself to some fake pretender with a false smile is disgusting to me. I shouldn't have to pretend to be an extroverted valley girl with an affinity for gabbing with the public - but not TOO much, just the right amount of believable amiability to get the job done. Day in and day out. I don't know about others, but I was not meant to live like that. Or like this. I often fantasize that I was meant to be born in another time, another place, where I would be loved and appreciated for who I am. Where my life would have meaning and purpose. Delusional.

I tell myself that I don't yet know what will become of me, but I do know. A future of misunderstanding, selfishness, being used and taken for granted, and doing the same to others. Maybe I don't deserve to be appreciated. Maybe I forsook any real love or compassion when I chose to willfully hurt others simply because I wanted to experience something that was forbidden. Eve and the apple. I always hated that story, at first because I perceived it as sexist, a stigmatization of women in general, throughout all history. Now, I revile it because I see myself in her place. What is so wrong with wanting knowledge? I suppose the faceless men who wrote it must have been warning against the corruption and sorrow that knowledge brings... all my intelligence and insight has served no other purpose than to make me more aware of the true nature of things. Hatred, hypocrisy, injustice, immorality, selfishness. Why did all those men and women write about everlasting love and human companionship and all these beautiful ideas that may have never been real? Those ideals haunt me with their nonexistence, and provoke me with their intangibility. I am ashamed that I once believed in them so fervently, and that some part of me still does - that innocent child that won't leave me be, that little girl that keeps whispering words of hope that are no longer of any comfort to me.

The only thing that disturbs me more than this empty loneliness and desire for love and acceptance is the act of giving up. It is both tantalizing and terrifying. I cannot do it, can't even face it. I am not sure yet if this is a hindrance or a help to me, a reflection of the endurance of the human spirit or a pitiful cowardice. Why do I think about these things? It only frightens me. Better to live inside stories and dreams - at least in those fantastical, horrible, spell-bound places, I can search for some form of peace.
La Belle Dame Sans Merci


Sometimes, if I'm lucky, I will come upon a passage in a random book that leaves me inexplicably stricken, and contemplative of what possible meanings could exist behind the words.

When did the body first set out on its adventures? After having ditched its old travelling companions, the mind and the soul, for whom it had once been considered a mere corrupt vessel or else a puppet acting out their dramas for them, or else bad company, leading the other two astray. It must have got tired of the soul's constant nagging and whining and the anxiety-driven intellectual web-spinning of the mind, distracting it whenever it was getting its teeth into something juicy or its fingers into something good. It had dumped the other two back there somewhere, leaving them stranded in some damp sanctuary or stuffy lecture hall while it made a beeline for the topless bars, and it dumped culture along with them: music and painting and poetry and plays. Sublimation, all of it; nothing but sublimation, according to the body. Why not cut to the chase?
But the body had its own cultural forms. It had its own art. Executions were its tragedies, pornography was its romance.

Jan. 5th, 2012

House of Flying Daggers

(no subject)

I wish I was dead. Or had never been born. Adolescent, I know, but no one should have to live with this fucking stress and heartache and anxiety every god damn fucking day. It seems as though he has no sympathy or empathy for me - he is either indifferent or angry. I'm never going to be able to quit smoking like this. My life is in ruins. I keep doing the same stupid shit, believing that it will make me feel better, that somehow this time it will work, this time it will be different. Why is this happening to me?

It's easy to ask these kind of questions and thereby place the blame on someone else, on something else. Anything but myself. I already know it, I just don't want to fucking hear it from other people who really don't understand me, or what I'm going through. It's insulting. God isn't responsible, there is no god.  Matt is responsible for his actions, but not mine. But emotions don't lie. Emotions are true. If I feel neglected, used, forgotten, and unloved, then isn't it true? He's never coming back. Every important promise that has been made to me has been broken. I should have known better than to trust anything anyone says to me if it's about something important - people NEVER follow through. Never. Why did I ever trust anyone? Everyone is fundamentally the same. I'm so tired of waiting for something that is never going to happen. I can't ever let this happen to me again. I have to let go of everything I fear to lose. Everything. I don't know if I can do that. Why is life worth living if there's no one and nothing to love? Nothing I can put my trust in? The things I loved were very frail....I thought they were indestructible. I was so fucking wrong. Truth is subjective, justice is nonexistent, art is shallow and fruitless, music is a reflection of suffering, and love is an illusion.

I don't want my heart to harden, but I can't go on like this. My mother used to warn me against this when I was very young. She told me that if I became cold to the world, that I would never be able to go back. I experienced such fear when she told me this, but now it feels like it's the only thing I can do. I can't kill myself, as much as I may desire it, and after 20 years of increasing anxiety, stress, and depression, I don't know what else to do. I would miss being close to others, but I can't suffer like this anymore. It's damaging me mentally and now physically, and I don't know any other way to fix it. I've tried therapy, a slew of medications, positive thought training, even spiritual ideas that I never really believed in, and they all worked for a short time, and then ultimately failed. I guess I failed. I make my life this way and I don't know how to stop it. Maybe I don't have a heart left at all. Broken so many times that I can't find the pieces anymore....crushed into dust. But if that was so, shouldn't it stop hurting? Maybe it's similar to phantom limb syndrome - I feel as though I have a heart, when in reality I may not.

I had a dream about Matt J. I haven't dreamed of him in years.... he seemed happy. Curious about my life, but ultimately indifferent. Said something strange.. "So, we never got married." Smiling. Maybe a little sad. I guess that's the only catharsis I'm ever going to get from him - in dreams. Why does the memory of him still hurt me so? It's been almost 7 years. I should be over this by now. It's pathetic.

Oh fuck this. This is pointless.

Dec. 7th, 2011

Kori Fierce


My husband ruined my hope and trust in most everyone. I allowed it to happen. Put too much trust in a good, but flawed man. The problem is that I seldom saw his flaws. But if I can't rely on him, how much moreso can I not rely on others, who may care for me even less? What is left to drive me when I have nothing left for which I can hope. My pathway is dark. I am afraid.

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