I hoped I’d start to feel happier. All I feel is more aware. Why?

I'm picking my finger in the familiar way that I do.

Why do I like the sharp feeling of one nail under another?

Why do I keep doing that?

Is that a thing?

And suddenly I'm doing it again.

Trying to figure myself out.

Is the thing that's behind that thing the thing that's wrong with me?

The room is dark around me.

I feel the warmth of the blankets around every part of me except the top of my head and my hands.

My phone stares back at me with a bunch of things to explore.

And I feel.

Exhausted.

The hope suddenly drains out of me.

The optimism I felt at discovering this new thing about myself that may finally be the key to happiness—my own version of it—is gone.

And I wonder if I will ever find the reason.

I wonder if there is a reason to find.

And, more importantly, a reason I can change.

What if there isn't?

What if there is this indiscernible yet noticeable quality about me that makes me like this.

And keeps me like this.

What if there is something hidden so deep within me that I will never be able to quite reach it?

Yet.

I can't see it either.

Personality types?

Harry Potter house? Ravenclaw.

Myers-Briggs? INFJ.

Enneagram? 2w3.

Sign? Virgo sun. Sagittarius moon. Libra rising.

Color? Green.

Sociotype? EII-2Ne.

Chinese zodiac? Tiger.

Diagnoses?

Anxiety. Depression. ADHD.

At this point, I have collected enough information about myself to qualify as a minor research project.

And still.

What am I missing?

What can't I see?

What else do I need to understand about myself in order to feel better?

And why don't I feel happier now?

I feel more aware.

Painfully aware.

I see my weak spots.

Is that what other people see?

Does it matter?

I know I shouldn't care what other people think.

But I think if other people liked me, maybe I'd like myself better.

Or it wouldn't matter as much that I don't like me.

Because I don't.

Do I have to like me to be happy?

I know I should love myself.

If I could just find that one thing about me.

Or the ten.

Or however many things.

If I could just find them.

And change them.

But I keep looking.

And keep understanding.

And it feels like someone dangling a carrot in front of me.

Every time I get closer, every time I understand myself a little more, happiness moves.

There is always something else.

Read more.

Exercise.

Drink water.

New planner.

Sleep more.

Self-care.

Why don't they work?

What am I doing wrong?

I'm actually not a big believer in most of these ways of understanding myself.

Yet each new way points to things about me that I agree or disagree with.

The weaknesses feel so much easier to believe for some reason.

And every time a new personality type pops up, I read through it with hope.

Eager to find out if this will finally tell me something about myself that makes me feel complete.

Like someone finally gets it.

Like I fit somewhere.

And it just doesn't happen.

There are things about each that make sense.

Things that make me feel seen in a way.

And I wonder if I piece all of those things together, will I end up with a picture of me?

Will I finally be able to see where the mismatch lies and fix it?

Will I see what needs to change so I can finally just live my life and be happy?

Because I understand myself.

I'm aware of so many of the things that make me, me.

And it just sort of feels like a big giant ball of rubber bands.

I can't see any one color when I look at that ball.

I see them all.

Wrapped around each other.

Crossing over each other.

Some stretched so tightly I can't quite tell where one ends and another begins.

And how do I get down to the bottom?

Or, I guess, the middle?

One rubber band at a time.

Which rubber band do I pick, though?

Which is the right one?

[Find out what's actually going on—and where to start]

The reality is.

It doesn't really matter.

I've been so focused on trying to fit the entire ball into a category that I can understand that I haven't taken the time to actually undo the bands and make sense of them for what they are.

Not what they should be.

Not what I want them to be.

Not what they say about me as a person.

Just what they are.

And it doesn't really matter which box the whole thing sits in.

Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff.

INFJ or something else entirely.

As long as I'm actually looking at what's there.

Piece.

by

piece.

One rubber band at a time.

It takes longer than I want it to.

It always does.

I'm impatient.

I'm sure one—or many—of my personality profiles will say that.

But the thing I know now is that if I take the time to look at each rubber band and carefully take it off—

spend a bit more time with some than others.

Ugh.

—I start to find what I'm actually looking for.

Not necessarily the final explanation of who I am.

But an understanding of what's happening.

What keeps showing up.

What hurts.

What makes things harder.

What actually helps.

And where I might need to start.

Maybe that's the part I couldn't see while I was trying so hard to understand myself.

I kept thinking there was some final piece of information out there that would explain me.

And once I found it, I'd know what to fix.

Then I'd feel better.

Then I'd be happy.

But maybe there isn't one hidden thing at the center of the ball.

Maybe I don't need to solve the entire thing before I can begin.

Even if I don't fully have words for every part of me.

Even if every rubber band doesn't fit neatly into a category.

It doesn't have to.

And I don't have to fully understand myself in order to be happy.

Often, it's not the label, or lack thereof, that's actually the thing keeping me from happiness.

Often, it's something else.

And I can start there.

One rubber band at a time.

—Julia

Therapist for the Tired but Trying