[Enneagram Type 4] Proof You Were a 4 Before Discovering Enneagram

Proof You Were a 4 Before Discovering Enneagram

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This is a discussion on Proof You Were a 4 Before Discovering Enneagram within the Type 4 Forum - The Individualist forums, part of the Heart Triad - Types 2,3,4 category; I was glancing over old lyrics I'd written, and this thread idea occurred to me. I wrote these when I ...

  1. #1
    Type 4w3

    Proof You Were a 4 Before Discovering Enneagram

    I was glancing over old lyrics I'd written, and this thread idea occurred to me. I wrote these when I was 17. I wanted psychosis, psychopathy or something. Being 22 now, me at 17 seems like a different guy. Even though I still admittedly wanna "lose it" someday. Oh, the drama (if you've any evidence of your 4ness before knowing of the Enneagram, present it, please! in your arts or memories):

    Do you wanna know a secret?
    Our humanity dangles on
    our imperfections
    Look at me, living proof
    All I've learned from being contrast led me
    To correction
    Thus I doled out my own suffering

    It loves to creep up on me
    Subtle intensity
    Always gnawing at the skull
    I'm singin'/screamin', I'm losin' my mind
    At the edge of the mind
    lies an unhatched spirit
    without a name, without a heart
    Found the way you left it
    Oh, insanity and shame
    Hatches the shell, opens the eyes
    With the nest rendered lame
    assumes control of the mind
    and then it's open season time
    I'd really like to heal this
    but I really want to feel this
    Watching people, gravely reminiscing
    It's innocent bliss
    and don't you dare act like you give a damn
    It loves to creep up on me
    Subtle intensity
    and I'm reelin' from this
    derelict feelin'. I'm losin' my mind
    But if it's the only thing that keeps me
    from the rage of being just like you
    I'd carve it in my skin
    "I'm from the Loony Bin"
    and I'd do it every time
    Insanity and shame
    moves you further away and it opens the eyes
    What I needed was your hand!
    To be understood and understand
    Couldn't care less now (open season time)
    Creepin' up on me
    Rainin' insanity
    It's falling faster and I'm reelin'
    Jawz, ImminentThunder and ideologicalflowz thanked this post.

  2. #2

    I never kept these things, which sucks, but I remember once in middle-school we got an assignment. "Write a poem about fall". This was maybe fourth or fifth grade, so as you could expect, the people in my class wrote simple poems like "summer turns to fall, I love to smile and play in the rain".

    Me? I wrote something like this: The fall is upon us, nature dies around me, am I poisonous? I'm sorry leaf, I didn't mean to kill you. I'm dead inside, just like you.

    God, sometimes I wonder how I'm still around. I obviously wasn't very happy XD

  3. #3

    I had a journal from when I was 13 full of nothing but depressing thoughts and lyrics to songs I could relate to. I actually can't stand the sight of it, I felt like an idiot every time I read it so I threw it away. I'm not sure how that ties in with being a 4. I'm just relating... lol I guess that means I need to look into being a 4 more. :)
    Le9acyMuse, treeghost, ImminentThunder and 1 others thanked this post.

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  5. #4
    Type 1w2

    I've been meaning to share this for a while. It's interesting to see that I keep finding journals that speak of "longing".

    The eternal battle ...

    by J-- on Wednesday, May 30, 2007

    Every moment that is spent longing for something ... to the extent where the longing itself becomes the something ; like the moth that is born only to long for the flame, getting closer and closer till it burns itself to its death .. finding peace in finding what it sought.

    Do I watch in awe of the beauty of both the flame and the moth .. or should I contemplate which hunts what .. who seeks out whom ? The eternal battle of desire that rages between the moth and the flame is the same battle that I live everyday ... seeking and longing for meaning in a world that urges me to seek it. Only .. I never know that what I seek will result in the same destruction as that of the moth.

    There is no way there's anybody out there that hasn't lost himself or herself in the longing itself without sparing a thought for the consequences of actually getting what they wanted. Perhaps that is the reason behind the endless conflicts we face everyday .. life is too short to live without having desires, but too long to fully think before leaping into the chase?

    Six feet deep into the depths of my own doing and I still don't realise how I torture myself. And the one thing that is my worst enemy is my own desire for more .. better .. greater .. better. The one thing in my life that is the worst thing in my life is that I continue to want something. I am my own cause of my suffering ..

    Like the moth to the flame.

    Fly .. soar .. touch the sky ... I want to blame the world for my problems .. blame God .. but deep down I know that I am the cause of my own sadness. I am the cause of my own ultimate destruction.

    Le9acyMuse, treeghost, Tyche and 4 others thanked this post.

  6. #5

    I also had a journal from third/fourth grade where I wrote plenty of sad stuff.
    One thing that sent shivers down my spine was on the "About Me" page. It simply read:

    What are you afraid of?
    My answer: The shadow demon.

    "The shadow demon" was a figure, a shadow, that I insisted I kept seeing everywhere. Of course, it wasn't real and I was letting my imagination run wild, but it was real to me, and that was all it took for me to believe I could see dead people for years. XD
    Le9acyMuse and treeghost thanked this post.

  7. #6
    Type 4w5

    I used to write poetry and prose that was nothing but self-pity. In college. Endless lamentation about something unknown. How I have been wronged by the world, by parents and how I am still alive, not knowing why am I alive, just trudging along in the sea of meaninglessness. Sometimes I'd aggrandize myself as well to motivate myself. But this was rare. Also romantic longings expressed in really petty imagery.
    Le9acyMuse, treeghost, ImminentThunder and 1 others thanked this post.

  8. #7
    Type 4w3

    My journals from my teenage years are half super giggly, very stereotypical 'Teenage Girl' babble about school and boys and dance class; and half 'woe is me; nobody loves me; my parents ignore me; I hate myself.' It's very very strange to read.

    I don't have a ton of poetry, but I have some pretty angsty and pretty embarrassing Gilmore Girls fanfiction that I wrote when I was 13, 14, 15 years old. And that fanfiction very distinctly reveals me as a 4, I think; it was a lot about finding identity and about never being loved and about searching for the poetic.
    Le9acyMuse thanked this post.

  9. #8
    Type 4w3

    Too ashamed to share it. How's that for proof? ;)
    Le9acyMuse, treeghost, kaleidoscope and 1 others thanked this post.

  10. #9
    Type 4w5

    My brother was reading my series of Unfortunate Events the other day and I saw I had written something in the back page. It's pretty amusing now. I was 11 or 12.

    "...and how my heart aches
    from every step I take
    it leads to a worse road
    walking.. and I'm walking alone
    take a look at me and see
    the depths of my pure misery
    wanted too much, too fast
    for just something real to last
    now all I see is pitch black
    blinded by the world and its path
    isolated down to my deepest fears
    vanishing til I'm no longer here
    love me now or love me never
    say it now or regret it forever"

    So full of laughter and light, hm?
    Le9acyMuse and burningsoul thanked this post.

  11. #10
    Type 4

    Yup, a lot of writing mainly. Also a lot of my taste in music and literature. I have a piece I've been wanting to show people but I am never sure who would appreciate it. Maybe you 4's here will. Most people don't understand it deeply enough. It's about longing and determination. Either way, I guess I will just do it. Time to stop being shy. lol

    “Dreams are like the paints of a great artist. Your dreams are your paints, the world is your canvas. Believing, is the brush that converts your dreams into a masterpiece of reality.”

    This is a beautiful quote. But I can't help it that it makes me think about both dreams I have and want to accomplish and dreams I have visited in my head while daydreaming and sleeping. If believing is the brush, then when you stop believing something will ever come true, is there a way to get back the brush?

    I feel like the majority of my thoughts consist of paint. I have too much paint on my hands. Loads of paint in different colors. Reds and blues and greens and yellows. Burgundy, orange, pink and lavender. Turquoise, fuchsia, sepia and black. The canvas is at my disposal. I'm young and passionate and daring enough to experience life. But where is my brush?

    It seems that recently I've had more trouble than ever believing some things will ever come true. My past has told me not to trust so easily, and that colors are sometimes much more agreeable in your head. Sometimes when you paint, the meaning gets lost and you forget the reasons for the painting as you sit mesmerized with the colors.I don't want to be lost. I don't want to forget the feelings behind the colors just because I am anxious for a painting. But to believe and to pick up a brush again reminds me of the brush I have lost, and how it too was magnificent. Before it was gone.

    Maybe my dreams are just too colorful, too complicated. There is only so much room for paint on a canvas. Eliminate some. Maybe they are filled with too many emotions and too many wishes that cannot come true. You can't have everything. Maybe the prince of my fairytale is too busy saving another princess to come rescue me. Not that I necessarily need rescuing. But it would be nice. Maybe the places I visit are just a little too out of reach and I'm supposed to stay here. Safe. Maybe the people I meet and the things we do are just illusions to keep me content as I sleep. A distraction. Maybe the things my dreams make me feel are not meant to be experienced in real life. Be satisfied. Maybe I put too much focus on what I think I want instead of what I need. Maybe.

    Yet, I love my dreams. I love the paint. All dreams. Dreams about traveling and graduating college and having children on my lap and going salsa dancing and sitting on a rocking chair when I'm older and being young and watching flying ducks and a huge house near a lake and vacationing in the desert and stealing a horse and writing a book and having powers to levitate and laughing with my friends and dining with my father before my wedding and taking a child to kindergarten and cooking my husband dinner and coming home from a long day at work and waking up to the smell of cookies in the oven on my birthday and playing checkers on a rainy day and fishing with my brother and growing old together with the love of my life and all dreams about never, absolutely never, forgetting what makes me happy and forgetting to live. Even the nightmares serve a purpose.

    And it's because I love these dreams and I love the smell of paint that I choose to find another brush and forget the old one that it seems I've misplaced, if not lost. I believed once and I will believe again, even if it takes another brush or my own fingers to spread the paint and make the painting I want.
    Last edited by Toristar; 09-21-2012 at 07:55 PM. Reason: Size of font
    Le9acyMuse thanked this post.

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