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.
Without real human connection, we’re just living in a simulation
I don’t really hate you, honest; I’m just afraid you may hurt me
I used to ponder who I really am; today I just ask who I am for now
To save my own sanity, it’s time for me to shut up about Trump
What if people don’t really care about understanding each other?
Why not join the LP? You can’t fight the state by becoming the state
Narcissists use ‘flying monkeys’ to keep victimizing their victims
What is this old longing for home? It’s the need for unconditional love