I’ve taken the MBTI test several times, and the results always fluctuate. I’ve been an INFP, an INFJ, an INTJ, and most recently, an INTP.

Perhaps because I’ve repeated the test so often on sites like 16Personalities, I’ve begun to understand the underlying patterns. Subconsciously, I know how to steer the outcome. If I want to be an INTP, I simply know which answers to pick.

It feels a bit like… gaming the system.

If I can do that, then what is my actual MBTI?

The question sounds simple, but every time I try to answer it, the response branches out into a dozen different directions.

When I plan for a specific outcome, I feel like the INTJ “mastermind.”

When I’m enjoying the experiment—tweaking variables and observing the data—I sound like an INTP.

And when I get caught up in the symbolic meaning of it all, asking “is this really me?”, I lean toward INFJ, or even INFP.

Everything makes sense.

And precisely because of that, everything can be doubted.

What’s interesting is that among all those possibilities, there is one I always avoid: any type starting with an “E.”

It’s as if there’s an implicit drive to maintain the consistency that I am, without a doubt, an introvert.

Why?

Perhaps because, subconsciously, I assume identity must function like formal logic. There is a deep-seated fear that if I am not consistent, I will lose my “anchor.”

I feel as though “I” must be a unit that obeys rigid rules, much like how mathematics defines a variable.

And from there, my thoughts begin to drift toward something stiffer—and slightly more horrific.

Let’s talk about the horror.

In formal logic, identity is usually defined as a binary relation that satisfies three axioms.

First, reflexivity:

∀x (x = x)

It means every object is identical to itself.

The problem is… every time I look in the mirror early in the morning while I’m still groggy, the person behind the glass feels more like a stranger than the “me” I become once I’m fully awake.

Then, the symmetric axiom:

∀x ∀y (x = y → y = x)

If I am identical to that reflection, then the reflection must also be identical to me. There can be no deviation in direction.

But daily experience doesn’t always feel that balanced.

Finally, transitivity:

∀x ∀y ∀z ((x = y ∧ y = z) → x = z)

If x equals y, and y equals z, then x equals z.

If I am a mirror, and the mirror is you, then we are one.

It sounds romantic.

But logically… this starts to feel horrific.

There is also the principle of substitution of identity (indiscernibility of identicals):

∀x ∀y (x = y → (φ(x) ↔ φ(y)))

If I (x) am truly identical to you (y), then there cannot be a single property that distinguishes us.

There is no room for even the slightest difference in preference. Even our choice for lunch or the state of our bodies should not differ.

Horrific, isn’t it?

In a textbook, all of this feels reasonable.

But in the mind of a biology student?

It is nearly impossible.

A single nucleotide mutation is enough to make $x$ no longer equal to $y$. If a tiny change at the molecular level can differentiate two organisms, why shouldn’t a single change in mood be enough to differentiate the various versions of myself?

Semantically, identity is even stricter.

In a model, the identity relation only contains pairs of elements that are exactly identical to themselves:

{(d, d) | d ∈ D}

No cross-pairing.

No tolerance for the slightest difference.

There is no “me” and no “you”; if we are both mirrors, then we are simply one and the same.

But perhaps, identity was never as simple as its definition in formal logic.

The world of logic is like a room with straight walls. Everything has boundaries that are clear, firm, and unambiguous.

But reality… doesn’t always work that way.

I’m not writing this to show off that I understand logic.

Quite the opposite.

This is a small correction to my own way of thinking. In my previous three articles, I was too caught up in discussing identity from an associative perspective, without truly touching its foundation.

I forgot to ask: in what kind of “space” does identity stand?

My hypothesis remains the same.

Identity is closer to a biological and cognitive process that is constantly in motion, rather than a static label that must always remain consistent.

So perhaps the question is no longer:

What is my actual MBTI?

But rather:

Why do I feel the need to ensure that I can only be one single type?

In the end, what changes might not be the “type,” but rather the configuration of my state at that moment.

And perhaps that isn’t inconsistency.

Perhaps it is simply dynamics.

A simple sign that I—and perhaps you, too—are not a collection of static labels, but a collection of cells that continue to divide.