To be an introvert usually means that we do not make friends easily, and we tend to have a limited amount of people we freely, willingly seek out.  We keep our true friends close, and everyone else at a safe distance.  This means, however, that to lose a friend beyond devastating.  For awhile, we are like a chair without a leg – balancing precariously but never stable.  We have to fall over before we can come to terms with the fact that our stable world has been broken.  We have to then find a way to mend that broken chair leg – and it is never, ever easy.

I recently lost one of my very best friends.  She was, quite honestly, the very best person I have ever met or will ever meet.  When most of us have to consider all aspects, Wendy knew instinctively what the right thing to do was every single time.  She always had a kind word, and it wasn’t the sort that she would call someone “dear” and mean it with any sort of insult.  She really was that wonderful of a person.  The world she was a part of is a darker place without her, and as those who knew her struggle to come to terms with the loss of a bright light, we have to remember to try and be more like her.   With her in our lives, we could always feel a need to be better human beings.  Without her, there will be a humanistic struggle to fix our own ways without her guidance.

As an INTJ, there is a tiny part of me that is grateful for the agony of loss.  It reminds me that I am human, just like everyone else.  I sometimes feel that my lack of open emotions makes me more of a high functioning sociopath or a machine, but then my heart gets wrenched and torn asunder, and I remember that I feel just as the next person.  I feel, if anything, more deeply for the rareness of the emotion of love and loss.

There is some comfort to be found in those friends I had thought gone from my life, who are willing to embrace me again.  Healing from sorrow is, I think, more of a community endeavor.  If there is no community, then it would just be me and my dark soul to confront the days ahead.  For once, I do not wish to be alone.  For once, I want the comfort of those around me.  Of course, that does not mean I want to show my pain – that is still reserved for a select few – but I do want to feel pain, and healing, and to feel that there are others like me.  For that reason, I know it can be good to feel normal.  In a few weeks or months, I’ll start to find a way to balance that chair again, and then I’ll want to be alone again as I try to make it stand again.  But until then, I will embrace the spirit of the community, and hope that we can heal as one.