I am a melancholic, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

Recently I took an online quiz to find out my temperament, because I enjoy them, and I was not at all surprised to find out that I am what they call a melancholic. Now, regardless of the perceived validity of online quizzes, I realized that there are reasons as to why I possess this temperament.

What comes to mind when you hear the word melancholy? Sadness, no doubt. And for good reason: the core qualities of a melancholic are thoughtfulness, introvertedness, meticulousness, and creativity. Upon having read the description, I immediately realized that this is me, since I am often in deep thought, can do with limited social interaction, like to write and draw, and am conscientious about my work, in school and out. It then occurred to me that something must have influenced these actions, since it's hard for me to find people I can relate to.
When you receive mixed messages your whole life, eventually you give up and do your own thing. For me, it was either, "Look what you've done, Emily!" or "These kids could never compare to you, Emily." So what is the truth? Am I so absentminded (thoughtful!) that I am incapable of following directions, or am I smart? Half the time I was berated for doing things the wrong way, and the other half I was praised (not to my face, of course) that I was going above and beyond. No wonder this mess had me set up for difficulty later on!

Speaking of difficulty, the following is how my confidence went downhill after the early years. As mentioned, I breezed through elementary school because it was just easy for me, despite the lack of direct reinforcement I got. In middle school, however, I frequently failed tests and forgot to hand in my homework, because I was not used to suddenly having to do all this on my own, and also because I honestly could've paid more attention. I began to experience legitimate stress for the first time, and it has continued without a break ever since. I am now in eleventh grade, and while I don't forget to hand in my homework now, I still often fail tests and have my carefully crafted essays criticized; I still manage to get good grades, though. Stress is all it is, and I have never been able to get nearly perfect grades like some people. I don't understand how they do it; no matter how hard I study, I just can't unlock that luxury. But that's besides the point. The point is that my overabundance of melancholy has made me thoughtful of all the wrong things, where I struggle with my grades yet enjoy knitting words together into a long, long scarf of experiences.

Dealing with introvertedness is a whole other can of worms, and shortly its connection with thoughtfulness will become apparent. I was always more sensitive and moral than other kids, and I blame this for my former inability to develop lasting, meaningful friendships, especially with other girls. This is not to say, however, that I didn't know how to have fun; I loved to play, party, and have fun, I just tired of social interaction after a certain amount of time, because we didn't see eye-to-eye, the kids and I. We weren't compatible as friends, in other words. This I believe is caused by my morality, sensitivity, and preoccupation with things more interesting and important than other kids: namely, the world and everything in it, ranging from science and art to nature and literature. Again, the thoughtfulness is seen here directing my attention toward the things that really matter, rather than these kids. Then I blamed myself that I wasn't popular, as is glorified and preferable. But I learned from the media how to be more normal, and while I am not as normal as I could be, I am normal enough to have good friends, and that is all I need.

Meticulousness and creativity go together like chapters of a book. I was always taught to be very careful, not destroy anything, not get in trouble. Everything must be done in a particular way, and when I saw people doing things which could potentially get them in trouble, I would get very anxious, because I didn't want to see the consequences; I didn't want to see the wrath of authority upon finding out they had disobeyed. An example of this is the first Spider-Man movie where Peter Parker got his spider-like abilities, and the whole time I was hoping he wouldn't accidentally reveal them and get into massive trouble; to my great relief, this did not happen. For a while, I lived with very set ideas about how things should be done, ranging from eating to behavior to speech. I might have been more naughty and acted out, but I didn't, because the devil on my left shoulder did not exist yet. On the rare occasion I felt compelled to do something or break something or eat something I shouldn't, my conscience would jump out and say, do you want to disappoint your mother, Emily? What did she ever do to you that you should break her heart like this? And then I would nearly always restrain myself. The ironic thing is, after growing up and realizing the relative importance of morality, I ended up destroying the one thing that had governed me the longest: my guilt. I no longer feel guilt, because I believe most things I do are justified. However, the meticulousness and diligence had spread to my handwriting, my word choice, my appearance. If something wasn't neat, I would redo it. Eventually I realized that the best outlets for my need for meticulousness were writing and art. Based on the literature and art I had seen, I grew to formulate my writing style as well as teach myself how to draw to an extent, and I may not be an expert, but at least I enjoy it. When I say that I am meticulous, I don't necessarily seek perfection, I seek satisfaction with what I can produce. It takes tireless hours and a little talent to do that, and I improve my own results until I can be proud of them. And then it is easier to be proud of myself.

And now, a moment of reflection: I would not want to turn out in any other way. The melancholic temperament is so named for a reason: being acutely aware of the reasons behind things often brings on sadness, especially in terms of the tragedy in the world. If I were not so pensive, I would have neither the will nor the ability to form conclusions about myself and the world, and express them. If I were not introverted, I might have become rude and utterly insensitive like other kids, to whom I would have been drawn to. If I were not so diligent, I would have become careless and messy, which I lapse into sometimes, but I try not to be. If I were not so creative, I would not be able to speak and write so colorfully, carefully revise my stances on issues, crack jokes, sing, or draw. I would be nothing without these four qualities. I may be melancholy, yet I am the most alive on the inside.