3-Minute Me

About ten years ago, I found myself in a sterile room — a study in beige monotony, clearly designed to be inoffensive and calming, but to me, it felt suffocating. I didn’t like therapy environments. The only other time I ever went was when I was going through marriage counseling and that didn’t work out so well. But instead of a palm reading or tarot cards I decided to try this again hoping for some deep insight.

I sat perched on the edge of a leather armchair that was just a touch too soft, my fingers drumming an impatient rhythm on my knee. The walls were adorned with framed diplomas and generic “calming” artwork — you know, the kind with soft-focus beaches and improbably serene forests. A white noise machine hummed softly in the corner, presumably to mask the sound of shattered dreams and midlife crises seeping through the walls.

Dr. Harriet Blanchard, a woman who looked like she’d been born wearing tweed, peered at me over half-moon glasses. “So, tell me why you’re here today,” she said, her pen poised over a crisp notepad.

I took a deep breath, fighting the urge to bolt. How do you tell a stranger that your life feels like a hamster wheel designed by Kafka?

“I’m… frustrated,” I began, the words feeling inadequate. “I own a public relations firm and I feel like I’m drowning in a sea of buzzwords and bullshit. All I do all day is make up lies about shit no one cares about anyway.”

Dr. Blanchard nodded, scribbling something. Probably “potential nervous breakdown” or “allergic to corporate jargon.”

“Every day, I go to work and spin tales about ‘synergy’ and ‘disruption’ and ‘cutting-edge solutions.’ But it feels empty. Hollow. Like I’m a carnival barker for the digital age, calling smoke and mirrors to an audience that’s already choking on smog.”

I paused, surprised by my own vehemence. The doctor’s eyebrows had risen slightly, the only indication that she’d registered my outburst.

“I used to think I was good at this — crafting narratives, building brands. But now? Now I feel like a fraud. Like I’m contributing to the noise instead of creating anything of value. I want out, but I don’t know how to escape. I don’t even know what I want to escape to.”

Dr. Blanchard set down her pen. “I see,” she said, her voice neutral. “And that’s why you’re here? To figure out your next step?”

I nodded, suddenly feeling drained. “I guess so. I just… I need to know if I’m crazy for wanting to throw away a successful career. If there’s something wrong with me for not being satisfied with what I have.”

She smiled, a small, understanding quirk of her lips. “There’s nothing wrong with seeking meaning in your work, with wanting to make a genuine impact. But before we delve into that, I’d like to try a little exercise. Something to help us understand how you see yourself.”

She handed me a pencil and paper. I was then faced with an unexpected request: “Draw a picture of yourself.” The psychologist’s voice was neutral, but I couldn’t help feeling a twinge of skepticism. A psychological test based on a self-portrait? Ridiculous.

I picked up the pencil, my inner cynic scoffing at the notion that a 3-minute sketch could possibly provide any profound insights into the labyrinth of my psyche. Yet, as the graphite scratched against paper, something unexpected happened. Without conscious thought, my hand moved of its own accord. A face emerged — not quite mine, but familiar. It was her. My alter-ego. The idealized version of myself that lurks in the shadows of my mind. There she was, staring back at me with a tiny button nose, effortlessly thin, radiating an aura of youth. Her hair, unlike mine, behaved perfectly.

Looking at the finished drawing, I felt a jolt of recognition. This wasn’t just a random doodle; it was a window into a part of myself I rarely acknowledged. We all have these alter-egos. These perfect versions of ourselves that we both aspire to and hide from. But that drawing was just one facet of who I am. In my spare time, I’m an artist, yes. But I’m also many other things, depending on the hour, the day, the mood. My interests are a sprawling landscape, too vast and varied to be contained by a single pursuit.

I’m also an armchair scientist, constantly pondering the mysteries of other dimensions. What lies beyond our perception? What secrets do the unseen realms of space hold? These questions keep me awake at night, my mind racing with possibilities. Then there’s my love for archaeology and antiquity. I find myself drawn to old buildings and cemeteries, breathing in the stories etched in stone and brick. Each weathered facade, each crumbling tombstone is a testament to lives lived, to history unfolding. I run my fingers along ancient walls and feel the weight of centuries.

But perhaps my greatest pursuit is the search for ultimate truth. I find myself constantly probing the contradictions in our social networks, our belief systems, our very existence. I’m fascinated by the gaps between what we say and what we do, between our ideals and our realities.

Many try to categorize me — right-brained or left-brained, creative or logical. But I’ve never fit neatly into any boxes. I’m neither fully governed by creativity nor completely ruled by logic. Instead, I exist in the spaces between, a blend of intuition and reason, of art and science.

We are all many people, I’ve come to realize. We contain multitudes, to borrow from Whitman. And it’s this complexity, this internal diversity, that keeps life interesting. That simple drawing exercise opened my eyes to this truth about myself and about human nature. I’m seeing myself all wrong. I envisioned something I am not. Did the therapist help me figure out my problem? As expected, there were no firm answers. No definitive do this or do that only this revelation of who I am not. The psychological equivalent to the pertinent negative.

As I left the therapist’s office that day, sketch in hand, I felt a sense of excitement. How many other selves might I discover, if I look deeper and allow my mind to wander? How many dimensions of my own psyche remain unexplored? The journey of self-discovery, I realized, is never truly complete.

It was just a month later that I took a day trip just to sit in a bar in Monterey, California (one of my favorite places on earth), to throw back a few tequilas where I decided I was going to take a 2-year road trip across the USA. And I was going to do it in an RV. Alone.

And I did.