The INFJ Obsession With Tragedy

I lead with a strange philosophy.

I cannot tell you when my sadness started. I think it was always there.

I cannot remember a time from my childhood wherein I knew that I was happy and carefree. Looking back in family pictures, I never smiled. In life, I was the child who never made a sound. I didn’t communicate. I was very shy. My mom said I seemed to have “very little interest in things.” I was always caught up in my head, and I never had friends.

Being home schooled, I grew up isolated. There was a period in my life where it seemed that my extroverted nature blossomed, but as I have matured into an adult, I seem to have regressed back to that small and lonely child again. I think that my depression was always there, even when I didn’t know what it was.

I am diagnosed with Chronic Severe Depression, taking several medications a day. Often, I fail to feel desire for my own purpose in life. I cannot feel as though I wish to do anything for myself. I do a great many things, and I think I have a chance to make something of myself.

This is me btw: http://www.facebook.com/zeldatetrasheik

I’m a cosplayer, actress, musician, singer, composer, and model. I have a band. I was a lead actress in a film last summer, and I do all of this while going to school full time while also supporting myself. Type in ZeldaTetraSheik on google, and you will find me almost everywhere. (It’s kind of my name that I marketed for myself.)

But this post is not so much about what I do and what I’ve done. It’s about my purpose behind why I do what I do.

Throughout the extent of my depression, I seem to have embraced tragedy with almost illogical obsession.  Such tragedy that may be likened to a beautiful story of separated lovers (preferably by death) or a heart-wrenching melody bowed on the violin. I am obsessed with tragic stories.

In acknowledgement of my unhealthy obsession, it appears as though, amidst my deep and often misunderstood self, I have superimposed a tragedy upon myself, wherein I am the tragic protagonist of a story who must give her story in music to the world before she dies. This is her main duty in life. Nothing else really matters to her. She neglects herself and does not care for herself because she has no intent upon doing anything for herself. She has a goal she must attain so that her life seems worthwhile, despite her depression. She would never give up without giving to the world. That would be selfish of her.

But is it selfish of me to be this way?

 

 

 

Today.

There is a few hour break between my music theory class from 9-10 am and my Interpersonal Communications class from 1 pm to 2:30 pm. 

On Mondays, my favorite place to get food is closed, which makes Mondays even worse, but at least I never work on Mondays. Honestly, Tuesdays are my worst days with classes from 9 am until 4:15, followed by work from 5-10 pm, as a simple INFJ waitress who absolutely dislikes most people and has social anxiety. (But honestly, what other job could I work 20-30 hours a week and pull in $200-$300 a week?) None. I’m the self-supporting hard-working, stiff-nosed, jaded go-getter who just wants to crawl back home and rewind 2 weeks back to spring break when all that was due by tomorrow was sleep.

Regardless of all of the lovely facets of my life that I deal with and attempt with steadfastness each day, it is the first day of spring. I could feel that it was by the songbird’s mellifluous tangents at 6:30 am. The sun is out. The sky is a robin egg blue, bespeckled with cumulous puffs. There is a slight haze, reminiscent of humidity, downplayed by a cold breeze that I imagine hails from a grand ice hall from the arctic north where trolls hide in caves and wildflowers bloom in the rural valleys juxtposed amongst the white-tipped mountains.

These thoughts help me get through the day.

I found lunch. Chicken strips are just a utensil for eating ketchup. My college is downtown so the royal hum of stop-go cars is unending. The whistles and shameless bird chirpings that started this morning haven’t stopped.

I don’t like anyone, so I went outside to eat ketchup. Besides, I don’t need anyone wondering why I need four little portion cups of the stuff. They don’t know it is the blood of my enemies, and they never shall. *hisses like a cat before scurrying away*

I am out here freezing my nuts off at a picnic table outside school in jovial tranquility and solitude when I noticed the fervent buds in fervent bloom on the small trees aligned in reverence before a wavering American flag. My middle fingers are chalky white from the chill thanks to poor circulation and Reynaud’s or whatever. I looked it up on the internet, and I trust the internet more than I trust people sometimes.

My boyfriend isn’t at school on Mondays, and I dislike talking to everyone else except him and my two best friends- Hailey and Abby, both of whom I only just met this past year. I feel anxious upon that realization. Both of my best friends I met this past year? I have lived about 27 previous ones haven’t I? And yet, I never made a girl friend to confide in until the past year… I think that’s almost frightfully uncharacteristic of me. I can’t make any more friends for another 266 days because it is March 20th.

The end.

May 19th, 2017

March 20th 2017
Once. I thought my words held meaning to them-
Wings. Guided by Wind. Masts upon the ships
Of Thought- which you ne’er sought to e’re condemn-
So sad to sea. My wings are faltered lips.

My mind. My captain. He is dying now-
Locked away beneath in cabins of doubt.
Silent. No Wind to hush the creaking bow.
Pills to take- they make me care less about.
Everything.

Anxiety

March 17th, 2017

Amidst a fray of mocking beats do blow.
Into my thoughts of disarray- a sad.
But haunting, relentless plague of sorrow.
Tomorrow. Will be the best day I’ve had.

But not today. I crumble in my fear.
Aching thoughts to have indefinitely-         Pushing all away, what once I held dear-Tormented by endless anxiety.

This Is My First Post

This will not be anything fancy.

Names are one of the most crucial parts of creativity. The name of something is so important that I oft find myself numbering various particles of my creative expostulations, such as poetry and stories. I will spend far too long looking up words on the internet to create a username. I read books entitled “10,001 BABY NAMES” just for fun, examining meanings, extorting possibilities . I am so far gone in this direction that I might more quickly name my first kids “Number 1” and “Number 2” before calling them Stevie Nicks or Micky Mouse. Nothing ever seems good enough for a name because a name is important. Suddenly, one must encompass the entirety of a tangible object, concept, or being in one word which depicts and holds meaning. That is difficult, because nothing is simple. After the fiftieth poem saved on my iphone notes, I just started dating them to use as names. Emily Dickinson, my favorite poet, and The Beatles, one of my favorite bands, often use the first phrase or groups of words for the titles of their songs and poetry. English is the only language I know. I am not particularly fascinated with languages in general. I am no Tolkien; however, I do love English. English is the best language. I don’t care about your opinion.

Google is one of my best friends. I just spent about an hour googling “Most beautiful words in the English language.” I ended up not using any of them in the title for this blog, opting for something with exemplified simplicity, a notion which correlates more directly with myself. I love to read meanings of words; I like how words sound when put together in different patterns for effect.

Being a Flier/Flyer- (Yes, both spellings are acceptable in terms of something which flies ((I’ve checked)) )- it’s something I relate to- a simple concept of flying, that I am on an endless journey to accomplish a great deed after having traveled through much weather and storm and trials. I am ever-doing it, as I am ever-flying; hence, my name. One might be able to discern that I am so phenomenally dependent on the important of naming that I am expending my entire first blog post explaining why I named my blog EverFly.

I haven’t written much of anything in a while, except the sappy love-poetry I exert upon my poor boyfriend whom I love in a way that only the most passionate, obsessive, fantastical lovers can love and devote themselves with every portion of their incomprehensible beings. He just made me a breakfast sandwich and poured me more coffee. One cannot question how much I adore him with sempiternal reverence after the acknowledgement of this.

I am in a band with him, a newly formed thing, called Ruby Poster. I’m not a particularly big fan of the name, but I am trying to do teamwork, or something. Still learning. Still trying. I am a lonely go-getter, kind of gal. I also like control, but I also know how to be patient and understanding, even if it ends up making me explode.

I am an ailurophile. That is a lover of cats. I love cats. They are my children. But no, I did not name them “Number 1” and “Number 2”

My favorite color is white, mostly for its symbolism, so easily marred as my heart in a world of hardship. I love white roses. Jasmine flowers. White lilies.

I also love the color purple.

My favorite animals are unicorns and cats. I am a pianist and vocalist. My favorite composer is Rachmaninoff. I love the Beatles. Warm weather. Caffeine. And deep discussions about intense and emotional topics.