No one understands me…

I feel like I live in a world full of people, and I am the only one among them who has their eyes open. I try to explain to people how to open their eyes, and everyone thinks that “I” have the problem, but no one can see that everyone’s eyes are shut, including their own, and I am just standing here in my loneliness. These feelings of misunderstanding, no matter how often I try to explain things to people, makes me so depressed that I feel like I could vomit and suffocate on it. 

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?