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.
I’m weary of degenerate society where my values aren’t welcome
Does your life feel wasted so far? Maybe your best is yet to come
Until you ask the right questions, you’ll never find missing answers
He couldn’t mold her into himself, but my dad broke Mother’s spirit
Pursuing conscious life is harder than sleepwalking through a life
Political systems built on coercion will always produce cheats, liars
Lesson for McCain’s ’08 voters: The lesser of two evils is still evil