The other night I realized I had mistyped myself on the Enneagram. This, after I just linked to the “One” description in my previous blog post, indicating that I identified as such. This lead me to read this description, extensive, and written by scholars of the Enneagram Institute, and I could not see myself in it. Only a shadow of who I was trying to be or how I thought others saw me.
This is a poem I wrote about this process. It’s unclear, but I guess that’s a nod to this whole self-discovery thing… or whatever. Also because Type Fours are said to be the most complex number on the Enneagram. Go figure.

Find this here.
“four”
I’ve been drinking copious amounts of coffee these days
I blame it on the peppermint taste
and the nights up late
laundry sits unfolded but clean
and I come up for air in between
between the kids’ naps and those loads and our arrivals and his departures and contacts on this reject-phone
I do, I do
I do see beauty in this mess
but I recognize my tendency to be
thoroughly drenched in tragedy
swinging back and forth, yes, in between again
in between the lines of these pages with a borrowed pen
but in between the delirious highs and the moody lows
there is a deep-seeded part of my heart that knows
I have been hiding from who I’ve always been
and pushing past and away from the people who knew me when
It’s easier and far more beautiful
to stand behind a well-written metaphor
but each time I hear a song I once knew by heart
my eyes fill with rain and I play my old part
the one listed in dusty playbills, burned cds, and poetry written on gum wrappers found in worn coat pockets in my childhood closet…
what is it? I can’t make out this role…
it’s my soul
I don’t chew gum anymore, or act on stage
but poetry cuts in deep during this “melancholic” rage
maybe I am hiding behind this extended metaphor
maybe my heart needs to break to be sure
this, here, this mess upon my sleeve is proof
of what I’m not sure, but it feels like truth
I’ve been drinking copious amounts of water these days
gulping down tears for fears (and the cure, and alkaline…)
I don’t believe I’ve ever really been one to pretend that I’m fine.