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.
Existing biases dictate how you see grand jury decision in Ferguson, Mo.
Schools’ one-size-fits-all rules are just excuse not to use judgement
FRIDAY FUNNIES
Rand Paul filibuster brings GOP rats out into the light for us all to see
We frequently go back to the past hoping to find a different future
Class experiment is evidence: Folks want something for nothing
500 years after Luther’s 95 theses, there’s still not much to celebrate
Briefly: Comic perfectly captured what I wrote about this weekend