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.
Cat’s ordeal reminds me that bad things happen right under my nose
Suppressing speech you don’t like is a lousy way to encourage tolerance
New segregation: Why do some people cling to racial politics?
After years of silence, it’s time to tell the truth about my father
Financial ignorance from your TV: Gold may not be around next year
Out-of-touch Keynesians still think ‘digging ditches’ is a good idea
When people identify with their masters, freedom is hard to accept
Love & Hope — Episode 6: