My Journey Processing Loss as an INFJ

During my interview for a recent episode of The INFJ Personality Show, the host mentioned that INFJ personality types have an aptitude for sensing other people’s feelings — sometimes at the expense of understanding our own.

I bristled at what felt like criticism (a sensitive spot for this INFJ). I like to think of myself as self-aware. Then, I remembered something that caused me to rethink that assessment.

The Impact of an Unexpected Loss

My dad’s death on July 13, 2013, came as a shock. He mowed the lawn and joked with the neighbors that day, showing no signs of a brain aneurysm that would erupt overnight.

His death marked my first unexpected loss of a close family member or friend. I had little experience with grief. I was sad, but I functioned as well as (and in some cases better than) “normal.” It didn’t make sense.

My dad’s absence left a huge hole in my life. But instead of crying I found myself observing my thoughts at a curious distance. I was an explorer studying an unfamiliar species.

I thought: How odd that my brain thinks, “I have to remember to tell Dad that next time I see him,” before it remembers he’s gone.

It’s weird that I’m unflappable at Dad’s wake, thanking everyone who came as if hosting a high tea at Buckingham Palace. I’ve felt overwhelmed by less socializing under ordinary conditions. It’s strange that I’ve only cried once and briefly. What’s wrong with me?

I thought of Dad often during the following weeks, but always with fondness rather than sadness. That changed in a single evening.

Uncovering the Mask of Denial

A month after my dad’s funeral, I brought Puffball, a tuxedo kitten I was fostering, into my basement to tuck her in. I kept her inside one room during the night to keep her from running herself (and me) to exhaustion. She liked the routine. I was pleasantly surprised to find that once I shut the door she settled into the box of blankets and slept until morning without a peep.

I decided to spend some extra time cuddling Puffball since I’d return to teaching for the start of a new school year that morning. Though I liked my work, no job could compare to the blissful freedom of summer, so each fall struck me as a small loss of that freedom.

As Puffball climbed my body like a jungle gym and batted my hair like a boxing bag, I glanced at the clock. Suddenly, I was hit by a wave of sorrow so powerful it sucked the breath from my lungs. Just like that, Dad’s absence became real and permanent. I slid to the floor, bent at the waist, and sobbed.

I realized later that to enjoy summer, I had stashed my stressful and unpleasant feelings about the coming school year in a mental lockbox labeled: “Do not open until school starts.”

Losing Dad definitely qualified as stressful and unpleasant. So, like the clean dog leashes I pulled from the animal shelter’s dryer, my reactions to Dad’s death got tangled with worries about course enrollment, teaching observations, and stacks of essays waiting to be graded. It all ended up in the lockbox.

When the clock struck midnight on School Year Eve, the lockbox sprang open and spewed its contents.

Crying helped. I felt something that had been caught tightly around my ribs for the past month let go. I played with Puffball and let my tears dry. When it became clear both of us needed sleep, I turned off the light, closed the door, and went to bed.

Grieving and Growing in Self-Awareness

In the wake of this lesson in my capacity for denial, I’ve worked on keeping in touch with my emotions. If I find myself restless or flailing, I ask, “What is it I’m feeling?” or “What could I be trying to avoid?”

Spending time at the animal shelter, being around my two cats and riding horses helps. These things ground me in my body and get me out of my head (which has become too adept at denial). They are perpetually in the present and transparent about every feeling. The closer I come to showing them the same courtesy, the better they respond.

I hope Dad, always my opposite — an extrovert to whom no one was a stranger (who, I see with hindsight, often knew what I felt well before I did) — would be proud of my newfound journey in self-awareness.