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.
When did someone decide we have the legal right not to be offended?
Home is just a dream that some among us are still searching for
Meet the new neighbors: Why rules aren’t always such a bad thing
Hermit life looks good as world tries to make me a misanthrope
I struggle to fix the imperfection in myself and world around me
‘Breaking Cat News’ is amazing art and evidence of dreams come true
Her dad didn’t want to help her, so here’s a jack-o’-lantern for Hannah
GAME: Can you find names of the last 20 commenters on this site?
It’s hard to shut off our internal chatterboxes to listen to silence