After taking that Briggs-Myers personality test, and having thought about things for a while, I’ve come to a few realizations about myself.
I am a person who needs to be needed.
I am a caretaker at heart.
This is not a bad thing.
I love doing nice things for the people I care about. It makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. I love watching people’s faces light up when I can do something for them, or give them something they’ve been wanting, or didn’t know that they wanted it.
Or when I can simply be there for them if they need an ear, or a shoulder to cry on, or a wall they can bounce stuff off of.
It makes me feel so good to be the person they think of when they need to vent, or get a good laugh, or just talk about deep, philosophical subjects.
I love caretaking.
And I don’t have much of that in my life right now, haven’t had since ElderDaughter moved out with Schnicklefritz. Youngerdaughter is off on her own, adulting, and Onlyson is at his father’s, and doesn’t really need much caretaking, anyway.
My friends are pretty self-sufficient, but I get to do a little caretaking in the form of phone calls, occasionally.
Baking has very little point, when the baked goods just end up going stale & hardening before anyone but me eats them. And I so don’t need them.
Of course, I do have animals to take care of, but…it’s definitely not the same.
I miss it.
Hence the depression.
My caretaking purpose is purposeless.
And that hurts.
The shine is dimmed, and it’s hard to see through that dimmed light.