For much of my life, I’ve been stymied by the question of what I was. I could tell people how I made my living, but I wasn’t sure how to define myself. I went through a serious identity crisis when I was 29 years old.
I had been operating a publishing company for about three years, but the company failed and I had to shut it down. It was the first major failure of my life, and it threw me into a tailspin. Up until that time, I had defined myself as a businessman and as a newspaper editor, but everything felt hollow at that point. I realized that I had a serious question: “What am I?”
I spent the next year in a general state of depression and despair. I’m not sure how I made it through that period. Nothing seemed to matter. And every day, the question from the face in the mirror mocked me: “Who are you, David?”
After considering and discarding a million ways of defining myself, I finally found an answer to my existential crisis, but that answer scared me even more than the nothingness of the depression had. It felt true, but I somehow felt like a fraud to say it. I was an artist.
No loneliness worse than being with others, but not the right one
If you need incentive to prepare for the future, look to London today
Grief keeps reopening the door my loving mother walked out of
Just give us fake, happy smiles; who wants to hear your feelings?
New YouTube channel launched for video versions of my essays
I’m not sure what’s left to say about politics, so here’s a picture of a cat
It’s great to visit Memory Lane, but it’s fatal to try to live there