--Personality Tests Only Reveal Half the Bullshit—

You don't know me. You don't. You really, really don't. And no, I'm not one for teen angst; I'm actually eighteen now, so this isn't some drama-wrist-cutting-give-me-attention-or-else-I'm-painting-my-eyes-and-fingernails-black sort of shit. I hate that sort of thing; people like that just need to open their eyes and fucking get a life.

But it's just the truth: nobody knows me. Depending on who I'm with, I let them see a particular glimpse, a mere shard of the huge mosaic. But hurt me, and I'm gone. You'll never see me again. Ask too many questions, and I'm gone. You'll never see me again. Judge me, use me, assume, and I'm gone. You'll never see me again. Oh sure, I'll be here, with my smile and my cordial words, but as for me…I won't be there.

So when I say you don't know me, I mean you don't know me. Not even Michelle. Especially Michelle. I mean, she knows a few things; I am her daughter after all. But she's quite fond of making false assumptions.

Today Michelle claimed that I was "self-absorbed, ungrateful and selfish." She said that I only want to use her for her money. I actually laughed, because she has no idea how wrong she is, how much I love her. I was just trying to be nice. I didn't want her to worry. But my mother wants to know everything about what's going on with me, and I guess I can't very well blame her. She is my mother after all. But sometimes I like my privacy, and sometimes I want to figure things out before I tell her the whole story. The amusing, depressing part is that Mom thinks that she has me figured out, but she really, really doesn't. It's my fault; I'm afraid to let anyone in—even my own mother.

I guess you can say I'm a dreamer. Introverted. Idealistic. Caring. Shy. INFP. At least, that's what the personality tests tell me. And they're always right, but only half right.

According to Jung, I am a "Healer." An "INFP." We're reserved, shy, but have "a capacity for caring not always found in other types." We "care deeply—indeed, passionately—about a few special persons or a favorite cause" and aim to "bring peace and integrity to loved ones and to the world."

It's true. I care so deeply for some people that it actually hurts.

So…how can I be "self-absorbed, ungrateful and selfish" like Michelle accused me of being? That's one of the worst things you can say about me. The other worst thing you can say is that I am stupid or unreliable. If people call me a bitch, promiscuous, or cold, psh, I don't care, because I know it isn't true. Go ahead, call me names; I don't get offended easily, trust me. But to hear words of that kind from my own mother…it's different. If my father had said something like that to me, I would have gotten angry, but blown if off easily. But when Michelle says it…it's like some kind of curse.

"A Healer's idealism leaves them feeling even more isolated from the rest of humanity."

Yes…I'm idealistic. I am part cynic, part dark-alternative-moody-brooding-artist-who-seeks-refuge-in-writing, martial arts, and drawing. But another part of me is that fucking idealistic little girl, that hopeless, naïve romantic who seeks the goodness in all things. One of my flaws is that I can find something good in almost anything, and at times this blinds me to the realities of cruelty, of the profane, of darkness and danger. Because I really just want to help you; I really just want you to be happy. But hell, most of the times I don't get anything in return, so I am alone in these little feats. So when I look at you with my wolf eyes and when I don't answer your questions or when I'm quiet or when I stammer and hold back, it's only because I know my idealism isn't worth it. It's only because I'm afraid, that I'm trying to figure you out. It's only because I know you'll laugh at me for being so hopelessly hopeful. It turns some people off, intimidates. It turns some people on, intrigues. Whatever you prefer.

But it gets lonely. The world doesn't appreciate dreamers anymore.

Solitude was my first best friend, my first real lover. Solitude and I go way back. We had a lot of good times, but in the end He just wasn't my type. Ha. Julia Chang the lone wolf.

"You don't know me, Michelle."

"Nobody knows you, Julia!"

It's my fault. I want someone to know me. I was thinking maybe Hwoarang. Maybe I can let Hwoarang know me. I want him to know me. But…I don't know. I don't know anything anymore except that I'm Julia, and change is one hell of an exquisite nightmare.

--Discontentment—

I think I've come to the realization that I will never be content with myself.

People tell me not to be hard on myself. But I can't help it. If I can't be the best, then my whole sense of worth goes to hell for a little while. Whether it's martial arts, writing, school, art, public speaking, being a daughter, I have to do it to my best ability. And if I fail, or obtain something mediocre, then I get upset. Really upset. And no amount of consoling will make me feel better.

I hate that I'm emotional. But hey, I'm a woman, so that's actually expected, am I right? But see that's the problem. I'm emotional, but people don't see it; I know how to mask it. I'm self-conscious, I don't want you to think I'm weak, so I can be stoic and quiet and that confuses people. It really messes shit up, and sometimes I laugh because that's exactly how I want you to feel. But sometimes…sometimes I want you to know so badly, because inside I'm being devoured by emotion's five-headed hydra.

According to that hardcover Health textbook, "Anger is a secondary emotion." Apparently some other emotion always precedes it, like sorrow, pain or fear. Maybe. Honestly though, sometimes I've just felt like destroying something with my bare hands for no reason, just to see it squirm in agony or to see it in little pieces, because then it'll make me forget my own pain and my own shortcomings. Oh wait. Pain. Primary emotion. Maybe that health book's right after all.

Not like I'm sadistic or anything. Regardless of how smart I am anger, alongside love, is another one of those emotions that I lack the brainpower to understand, to control. I hate not feeling in control. Or maybe it's "heartpower" that I'm lacking. Maybe "mature" is merely a euphemism for "cold and distant." Maybe "mysterious" is merely a euphemism for "anti social loner loser who'd rather escape to her sketchbook, forests and sparring rather than associate with that thing people call normal, healthy socialization with society." I can't decide, so you decide.

Maybe that's why everyone likes Ling Xiaoyu more than I. Xiao spews bullshit all the time; she speaks her mind and doesn't care how stupid she sounds, releases everything until she's as hollow as that brain of hers. She lets her emotions run rampant while I hold back, wary, analyzing, wondering and waiting for people to prove their worthiness. That's just me. And no, I don't try and be "mysterious" on purpose, though I've been told that that's one of my charms—and also one of my turnoffs. Sometimes I let you in; most times I don't. Xiao isn't like that at all. While she's flaunting her life story and her petty problems for the world to devour, I'm in the corner writing furiously and pummeling punching bags trying to keep my feelings under control, grinding my teeth to keep up that image and keep myself together. She sickens me. She intrigues me.

People like Xiao just let go. Open floodgates. No secrets. No depth. No damn depth. No mystery. Many find that endearing. It makes her easy to understand, makes her less of a threat, makes her transparent and fun and bubbly and popular and worthy of me wringing her neck. It makes me jealous, and I hate it. I'm worth so much more, yet I envy her bubbly personality, not because I want to demean myself and become an imbecile, but because she knows how to open up. She isn't afraid. That makes her look incredibly stupid most of the times, yes—but it makes her less alone. It makes her less alone. And I admit I admire her for that.

Yes, go ahead, gasp. That is the sole reason for me admiring Xiao, and this is the only time I will ever say it.

Do I need to be more ditzy, is that it? Should I pretend? Should I go to amusement parks instead of libraries? Should I build a fancy time machine that'll probably never work instead of try and save my homeland from global warming? Should I give up books and walks in the woods for a big ass panda bear and a Jin Kazama fan club?

What should I do? I should stop being angry and stop comparing myself to others. If I don't, I'll never be happy.

Sometimes I wish I could slice out my personality and grow a new one. Most of the times, I thank the spirits that I am not like Xiao. But I'm a woman of contradictions and self-made euphemisms. I really wish I could be more content with who I am.

And why, do you suppose, am I writing all of this? Telling thousands, millions, of complete strangers all of this? If I can't even tell these types of things to my parents or closest friends, then why the hell should I even share this with you? I don't know. I guess because writing is where you can't see me, writing is where I can dream and live, live, live, and I'm not going to meet most of you anyway, so what the hell? Writing this helps me too, helps me figure out things that I can't verbalize, things that I fear to think about.

I guess, in discontentment, we all manage to find our sanctuaries when the questions and accusations become unbearable.