Traveling INFJ

Category: Random Thoughts

  • A Quiet Nightmare

    A Quiet Nightmare

    “I just want to sleep without dreams.”

    Everyone else in my house is relieved because they’ve waited for this moment all day. It’s time to go to bed. The dogs each receive a honey and banana cookie at bedtime. It’s the dog version of a mint on the pillow. They race ahead of us and get comfortable in their respective sleeping areas, excitedly anticipating their treat. My husband has worked an extra long day and has been waking up in the middle of the night with muscle spasms, so he’s more tired than usual. He can usually fall asleep within minutes of lying down, though. He’s so lucky.

    After we ate dinner, my Dad took himself to his room. He asked to go to the bank soon, but I didn’t want to take him there alone. I haven’t been to this specific bank location yet and don’t enjoy driving him places. I have a phobia of driving, and the anxiety is worse when I have passengers. Ironically, my Dad taught me how to drive back in the day. I learned how to drive in a late 90’s Toyota 4Runner with a manual transmission. He took me up Divisadero Street in San Francisco to teach me how to not roll backwards at stop signs, and that must have scarred me for life. Anyway, I still don’t want to take him to the bank.

    I’m the only living creature who doesn’t want to sleep yet. Or at least I want to sleep but without any dreams. I’ve been engrossed in the same nightmare for days and don’t want to end up there again. It worsens every night, and the next chapter doesn’t seem promising. If I take something with diphenhydramine, then the nightmare won’t happen again. It’s too late, though, because I already drank some wine, which should do the trick alone. Maybe. It hasn’t worked lately, though.

    My husband falls asleep in about five seconds. I lay there for a while, listening to him breathe calmly and peacefully. Kylie, one of our dogs, repositions herself in her crate, making a recognizable sound. Ember is in my closet, sleeping on the floor in her normal spot. I try to relax by listening to the brown noise machine that we turn on every night. I wonder if the nightmare will finally be over, and soon, as I drift off to sleep, the dream returns.

    The house is quiet and dimly lit. It’s not even my house because it’s all on one level. It’s dark in there, with the shadows creating eerie shapes on the walls. I’m immediately uncomfortable, but at least now I don’t have to wonder if the nightmare is done with me yet because it isn’t. In this quiet nightmare, the dogs quietly disappear to their beds as we approach bedtime. One minute, they’re by our side, and the next minute, they’re in another room. They don’t care about bedtime cookies anymore.

    The silence is disconcerting. I can’t hear my husband breathing, or the noise machine, or Kylie making a nest for herself in her crate. It’s like I’m wearing noise-canceling headphones. In this disconnected, dreamlike state, I want to test my nightmare to see if it’s real. Am I here again? I walk into the pantry. I know where it is located in this strange, unfamiliar, yet familiar house. I find a Costco-sized mayonnaise on a shelf and drop it on the floor. It barely makes any sound. There’s hardly a heavy thud that I’d expect. I have confirmation that the nightmare is back.

    Now I feel queasy and a little gross, probably because I drank alcohol before bed, so I want to take a shower. I don’t know why this is what I need to do, but off I go to find the bathroom. I try to call for the dogs to come in with me, but my voice falters, and the words don’t come out. I want them there to protect me, just in case. I want to go into the room where they are, but my feet take me in the opposite direction. I somehow end up in the bathroom taking a shower.

    At some terrifying point, I realized nondescript faces were watching me from outside through the high-mounted bathroom privacy window. It frightened me so much that I tried to call for help. I’m trying to make a noise, but as usual, I can’t speak above a whisper in this nightmare, and nobody is listening anyway. I tear a towel off the hook on the wall and run fearfully down the hallway to where my dogs are. When I walk into their room, they look at me silently but don’t come near me. I’m using body and facial expressions to convey what I want them to do, but I’m not getting a reaction. They stare at me. They stare through me.

    I proceed into another room, the pantry again. I start trying to drop jars of mustard, jam, and cans of beans on the floor. They fall and hit the floor silently. All I want to say now is help. The words can barely escape my lips. I hear an incognizant version of the word, like speaking a foreign unintelligible language. “No, that’s not what I meant,” I think. I try again to say help, and it still comes out garbled. Help is not available here in this quiet nightmare. I sound confused, like my Dad now.

    I try again while I flail about in my quiet, dark house where nobody can hear me at night. I’m standing in a hallway near tears, trying to shout, “Help!” I don’t want to see those nondescript faces again. “HELP!”

    “What?” My husband suddenly mumbles beside me. I’m starting to regain consciousness and wake up from the nightmare. I’m hot like I was running. “What?” my husband says again. He’s barely coherent, but he heard me say something out loud and wants to ensure I’m okay.

    “I said help,” I replied. “It’s a nightmare.” I’m still groggy.

    My husband reaches out beneath the covers and holds my hand, making me feel less alone, which is comforting. It’s a huge relief to be back where I can hear the brown noise, ceiling fan, and snoring dogs. In under a minute, he’s asleep again, though, and I’m alone with my thoughts.

    I cried while trying to process this next chapter of my dream, and the remainder of the night was restless. I lay in bed and emailed myself details from my nightmare because I feared I’d forget them, but you really can’t forget something like calling for help and being unable to vocalize it. My Dad may experience something like this soon but in real life. It’s horrifying.

    I don’t want to fall asleep again because I’m starting to hate this quiet nightmare. It’s exhausting to dread bedtime this way. I want to look forward to sleeping like everyone else does. I feel like I need to plan an Inception-type intervention for tomorrow night. I could plant a pen and paper somewhere in that dark, soundless house, and hopefully, it’ll help my words speak despite all that deafening and unsettling silence.

    I eventually think I’ll use some of the new art supplies I acquired from the JOANN store going out of business sale and paint a “featured image” for this post. I’d like to replace all the photos on my blog posts with either my own photos or my own paintings. Future plans, though.

    Until next time. Thanks for reading!

  • Rainy Days

    Rainy Days

    Daily writing prompt
    What is your favorite type of weather?
    View all responses

    Personally, I’ve always enjoyed a rainy day. There’s just something about the sound and ambiance of rain that I prefer over a bright and sunny day, although those can be just as nice. When I lived in Washington State, I’d go for regular neighborhood walks in the light rain, and in Stockholm, Sweden, I even appreciated the rainy days in the city. The sidewalks always seemed clean and refreshed after a good rain shower.

    This brings to mind how some people I know feel depressed when it rains, while I feel more relaxed, so I typed the following into Google. “Why do some people prefer rainy weather?” and it gave me some thought provoking reasons for why this might be.

    Soothing Sounds and Sights: The rhythmic sound of rain falling on rooftops or windows can be calming and even conducive to sleep. The way rain makes the world look clean and fresh, with everything appearing bright and clear after a storm, is also appealing to some.

    Relaxation and Cozy Activities: Rainy days offer a perfect excuse to stay inside, relax, and engage in activities like reading, listening to music, or spending time with loved ones.

    Cooling Effect: Rain can help cool down an area on a hot day, providing welcome relief from the heat.

    Nature’s Cleanliness: Rain helps to wash away dirt and pollutants, contributing to a sense of cleanliness and renewal.

    Psychological Benefits: Some studies suggest that exposure to negative ions, which are abundant during rain, can lift mood and reduce stress

    After reading some of those reasons, it makes sense why I’m more content than others on a rainy day. After my parents separated, my Mom moved to Mexico and eventually built a new life in a small village north of Zihuatanejo called Troncones. I didn’t see her for over a year because I had stayed in Northern California with my Dad. Once I finally flew to Mexico to spend some time with her, it was the rainy season because it was June, and I was on summer break from school.

    My Mom’s “residence” didn’t have electricity then, nor was it connected to a community water source. There was no air conditioning, and we had water for the house delivered by truck. We bought all our drinkable water. We also used a generator to power things like my laptop or her washing machine. It was all very bare bones. She simplified her life, going from being a successful small business owner in the San Francisco Bay Area to living in a rustic palapa on a Mexican beach and reevaluating her needs in life.

    In the kitchen, my Mom used a propane refrigerator and range. She had a little concrete structure poured near her driveway, which she could lock up and secure her valuables inside. On the roof were a bunch of massive water tanks. Attached to that was an outdoor shower area, and then on the opposite side of the driveway from that building was an outhouse dug into the ground. It had a privacy door made of bamboo, and when you went inside, you had to squat over a hole. I hated going there after dark because I was terrified of my flashlight falling in.

    This is how my Mom chose to live then, and she was content there. She was always kind of a hippie anyway. Trust her to use an outhouse while our friends down the beach had real toilets and electricity (it took a lot of money and effort to connect to the grid).

    My Mom’s living room had a few hammocks and original air chairs. She used to refer to her new way of life as “Deluxe camping,” but I never really saw it that way because I was always hot and uncomfortable, and if I’m candid, I was annoyed to be there. The rain offered me a welcome break from the stifling heat and a reason to sit in an air chair and read a book in the misty breeze. I was in a bad teenage mood most of the time at my Mom’s, so the rain was a blessing that naturally cooled down the temperatures of both the outside world and my internal displeasure with the whole situation.

    I must have developed a sincere fondness for the rain because as a teenager I relied on it to quiet my mind and reduce stress. My Mom and I wouldn’t argue much when it was raining. We would sit together in the hammocks or air chairs and watch it fall, and sometimes, if the risk of lightning was slim, we would even swim in the nearby tidepools. I loved sitting in the warm tropical water while the cool rain drops fell on my face and into the ocean around me. Our black labrador, Walker, would sit there with me, too. He loved going to the tidepools because he enjoyed watching all the fish.

    Lately things have been overwhelming, between my Dad, not having a solid income, and owing taxes. I really need to remind myself to relax, so I’ve been making videos using Descript, and their collection of stock video and audio. Simply creating each video seems to be a form of therapy for me, so even if nobody else enjoys my work, at least I have. I made this “Rainy Day” Relax for 5 minutes compilation today, and figured I’d share it now, because maybe all I truly need right now is a good rainy day.

  • I Wish to Paint

    I Wish to Paint

    Daily writing prompt
    What do you wish you could do more every day?
    View all responses

    My Dad taught me how to paint when I was a child. After his tours in Vietnam, he used the GI Bill to study Fine Art at Berkeley. He felt strongly about art and always wanted to encourage others to pursue it, if not as a career—which is a difficult path—then as a hobby.

    Fortunately, I could blend the creative process with my chosen career path as a Software Engineer. Before moving into Systems Engineering and Management roles, I focused heavily on User Interface design. Knowing how the user uses a given system is as essential as the system being developed and maintained. A software engineer is focused on writing beautifully structured and scalable code and is not nearly as cognizant of whether or not the end-user truly needs a certain feature or if they’ll even understand how to use something that is delivered.

    I found a way to incorporate my experiences with art and design while using another part of my mind to recognize and peer-review high-quality code. The thing is, I still found a gap between the kind of freeing creativity that I sought and the limit of my creativity when building software. I wanted to make stuff that nobody is going to use and complain about, and its existence is meant to be seen aesthetically and serve no other purpose.

    That’s where my painting comes into the equation. I paint for fun, and I paint whatever I feel like painting without input from a customer or other developers. My art exists to allow me to create something out of nothing and distract myself from requirements and rules. My art is stress relief, and the process of creating it offers me unparalleled peace and contentment.

    These are the days when I really wish I could paint more frequently, but everything keeps getting in the way.

  • Always Curious

    Always Curious

    Daily writing prompt
    What is one word that describes you?
    View all responses

    If I had to choose just one word to describe myself, that word would be curious. I’ve been curious since I first had the innate conscious ability to be curious, and of course, it has evolved and been influenced through my experiences over time. My curiosity has certainly led me to travel and explore, and never stop learning, and so I’m pretty grateful to be curious.

    This brings to mind how some people just aren’t naturally very curious, so I typed the following into Google. “Why are some people not curious?” and it gave me some thought provoking reasons for why this might be.

    Curiosity as a Personality Trait: Curiosity is a psychological trait that varies within human populations, similar to other personality dimensions like extroversion/introversion. 

    Openness to Experience: In the context of personality psychology, this trait is often referred to as “Openness,” which is one of the five fundamental facets of human personality. 

    Factors that Diminish Curiosity: Factors like fear, assumptions, technology, and environment can sometimes stifle curiosity. 

    Curiosity and Well-being: Research has shown curiosity to be associated with higher levels of positive emotions, lower levels of anxiety, more satisfaction with life, and greater psychological well-being. 

    After reading these descriptions, how would you rank yourself on the scale of curiosity? Do you think you’re a very curious person or about average when it comes to being curious about things? Please comment! I’m curious.

  • The Airport Bar

    The Airport Bar

    The airport bar is always worth a stop, even if you don’t drink alcohol. I’ll often show up for a flight extra early to enjoy the ambiance of a bar in an airport terminal, and the people-watching is usually amazing. Sometimes, you meet the most interesting people sitting at an airport bar at eight on a Thursday morning.

    A few weeks ago, I had a connecting flight through Washington Dulles and found myself in a crowded bar across from my departure gate. Noticing that the bar was populated primarily by couples who seemed to be leaving for relaxing alcoholic vacations, I grabbed a stool in the corner, with room on both sides, where I was hoping to keep to myself.

    I ordered a mimosa, since my conscience believes it is more socially acceptable to drink a mimosa at eight in the morning than an Old Fashioned or a Jägerbomb. However, it started to look like the couples across the bar were already on that track. I wondered where they were going in such lively tropical attire on a wintery December day. Did they work 4/10s and only have to take one day off from work? Cabo? Miami? Maldives? Lucky, happy people!

    Speaking of luck though, I had good fortune too, because an old gentleman approached the bar stool to my right just then. He grinned brightly and said something like, “Good morning, darling!” in an upbeat and confident tone, and I knew for sure at that moment it would be a unique hour before my flight. This gentleman didn’t disappoint my introverted intuition whatsoever.

    He and his adult daughter, probably in her 50s, were going to Florida to hop on a luxurious cruise to the tropics. As I suspected, everyone but me was on their way somewhere that required a Hawaiian shirt, a sundress, or a floppy hat. I gathered that these two traveled together often and learned from him that his wife had passed away recently. They had been married 58 years, and one of their favorite things to do together was take a cruise. His daughter had also lost her husband, so this was their way of coping with their loss and enjoying their time together now.

    When the bartender came to take their order, the daughter said, “Dad, what do you want to drink?”

    “Anything with alcohol!” the old man chirped.

    He ended up ordering a beer, which he happily sipped as he continued to share with me the unabridged story of his life. He started his career as an attendant in a petrol station and retired as a multi-millionaire with several mines in his name. He sold a car to buy the engagement ring he gave his beloved wife, and when she agreed to marry him, he only had $60 to his credit. He was the epitome of a mid-west American success story.

    Then he spilled his beer on me. It went everywhere. Beer covered our area of the bar top, my purse, my sweatshirt, and his jacket, and flowed into his lap like a lazy Hefeweizen river. It looked like someone had emptied an entire pint glass on us.

    The old millionaire gentleman apologized profusely, and I commented that I would probably smell like a brewery when I boarded my next flight to Minneapolis. A guy across the bar, sitting with his wife, raised his glass and said proudly, “I always smell like that when I fly!” “I salute you, good Sir,” I replied as we acknowledged this confession.

    While we dried off, my barstool companion paid for another mimosa and covered my bill as an apology. He paid in cash from an overstuffed wallet that resembled an extra-large sausage roll. Reflecting on our generational differences, I would feel nervous carrying a wad of hundred-dollar bills around like that. Then everyone hopes you spill your beer on them. People start taking positions and trying to trip you.

    The gentleman’s daughter reminded him they had to hurry up, drink faster, and catch their flight to Florida. Before they hurried away, though, my new old friend told me more about his wife, whom he missed more than anything, and that he wouldn’t have been able to accomplish half the things he did without her love and support. It was so sweet, and he even looked like he might cry. He didn’t, though.

    My airport bar friend said there is nothing more important than spending time with loved ones, and now he wouldn’t know what to do without his daughter. I told him about my Dad, who has dementia, and how I’m considering taking a career break to become a caregiver for him. It’s been weighing on my soul lately, so I asked him for any advice.

    “God will bless you,” he confidently assured me. “You know what to do, and it will work out.” Then, they left for their departure gate.

    You do meet the most interesting people in an airport bar. Sometimes, they’re just drunk and obnoxious but thoroughly entertaining, like the overly self-important guy in the United Club who I met a few hours later and who forgot his open MacBook on the bar. The bartender had to go chase him down in the terminal. Missing something, buddy?

    Other times, these interactions leave you feeling destined to meet each other and that they served some purpose to help you understand something from the bigger picture of life itself. I will never see that old millionaire gentleman again, but I will remember him and his story of family and love. I hope they had a wonderful cruise and didn’t lose too many of those hundred-dollar bills paying for spilled beers.