I don’t know who I am quite yet. Sure, I’ve taken the Meyer’s-Briggs personality test, but what does that tell me? Maybe I’m an INTP, a heartless analytical, or maybe I’m an INFJ, an organized sweetheart. I’ve tried to define who I am and it doesn’t work, because I am so much more than four letters strung together.
I’m long car rides with my dad where we discuss politics. I’m ballet classes and words on paper and delicious home cooked meals. I’m two houses, split parents, a double life. I’m math and school and stuff that makes sense. I’m high heels and fancy dresses and I’m sweatpants and cozy blankets. I’m a reserved bookworm and I’m an outgoing actress. I’m anxiety attacks and sarcasm and long showers and bookshelves filled to the top and the comforter I’ve had since I was five. I’m mountains and oceans and skies and rivers and flowers. I’m football and I’m tea. I’m music as varied as the stars.
I’m an enigma to myself. I don’t know quite who I am and I don’t know quite where I fit in. I know that I’m not a personality analysis, because my personality is too complex to be analyzed. There’s no test in the world that could put all of me down on paper, in any number of letters. There’s no diagnosis, no classification, no phrase to describe the uniqueness and complexity of me.
I don’t think anyone is as simple as four letters. I don’t think any of us are truly one person. We’re all complex and different. We all self-contradict in the strangest of ways. Because we are all human, and being human means being intangible. I am not a string of four letters. I am not a diagnosis. I am me, and that’s all I ever need to be.