For a while when I was younger, maybe 10 or 11, my favorite book was Please Understand Me, an exhaustive discourse on personality types, based on The Keirsey Temperament Sorter. You know, INFJ, ENTP, etc. I was entranced, I think at least partially because of the title -- its pleading pronouncement of my most basic desire at the time (which it is still, I think, which maybe is just part of the human condition, but which also might mean that I'm destined to be perpetually 10 years old, emotionally). I pored over every word about "me," the "most rare of all types," INFJ. (Though, reading more recently, I might be closer to INFP. This is not an exact science, people.)
I still read about this stuff, I still find it kind of fascinating, but I don't know that it brings me any closer to understanding. Lately I've been trying to talk myself out of this need to understand things (and my need for others to understand), particularly feelings and motivations. Most of the time, they don't make sense. But you still have to deal with them in the real world, nonsensical or no. Maybe I should focus my attention on that, on just accepting and dealing. Maybe trying to understand is just a way of diverting myself from the reality of stupid, disappointing truths that make me feel sad and angry. Maybe trying to understand these things, the whys behind them, even a tiny little bit, is just an exercise in futility.
I don't really want to believe that, but I sure wish I did. It would make some things so much easier.
Posted by thevieve at May 11, 2006 11:30 AM