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.
My love of ‘fur friends’ stems from the callousness I saw in my father
There are more of us than ever, so why do many of us feel so alone?
I choose love over hate, because the author of the story’s not done
Cancer diagnosis forces you to decide what really matters in life
Ruthless impersonal judgment is typical tool of cultural conformity
Black? White? Brown? Santa Claus is any color you want to make him
NOTEBOOK: Why do so many libertarians need One True Way?