How to begin?

At the beginning?

I’m at the other end of an experience where my sense of self was questioned. But it was an aspect of myself; that I am a writer.

A series of statements were made about a piece of writing I’d done. What was perceived by the other person as simple questions and statements, criticism and banter was taken by me as an attack because of the manner and approach. I reacted to the words that were said, took them to heart… and things went downhill for a while.

The event is over now; apologies made, no ill meant… but I’m still interested in the way I reacted. 

It began as feeling uncomfortable and escalated into horrible depression (sort-of a contradiction in terms of course as depression is felt to be down and escalation is more of an up-word), terrible sadness… my confidence disappeared, I felt like I had been stripped bare.

Uncomfortable doesn’t even come close.

And now I find myself feeling uncomfortable once more.

I’m sitting here watching an episode of The Prisoner, called Schizoid Man.

In summary, it’s where The Prisoner — number 6 — is brainwashed into thinking he’s another person. This new person — number 12 — is to put “number 6″ (the real replacement) off-balance and replace him. The story revolves around identity, an identity which the man who is labelled number 6 has resisted since he was kidnapped.

Long story short, I find much of this episode unnerving. As I do with anything I see or watch that revolves around identity and having it removed, ignored or forcibly changed.

Perhaps it’s because I’ve had such a difficult time with identity for much of my life, I find any challenge to the person I define myself as very difficult to bear.

I define myself as a writer; professionally-so for 10 years, personally for longer. It’s the one part of myself that’s remained clearly defined in my own head for the longest time. Other than my gender of course — but that’s another story that I’m unwilling to speak of (the reasons will become apparent one day).

But I think the whole “I am a writer” has become the overriding identity, simply because it’s remained consistent.The gender stuff… well, those that know me will know that it’s not that simple.

So when my identity, my writing which I identify myself with so much, is challenged, I…

Well, looking back, the reaction was much the same of the ill-fated Prisoner. I was off-balance, my sense of self and my identity questioned, it set my mind off like dominoes falling, one knocking into the other.

Who was I? Why wasn’t my friend accepting what I was saying. This IS me…

…isn’t it?

Identity is a funny thing. I can define myself as “A” or “B” or even “C” (sorry, another obtuse The Prisoner reference) but am I really any of these things?

Personality, like so many other things, is a continuum; changeable given the right circumstances. This leads perhaps to the question: “who am I not?”

Not even a good question unfortunately. At this point, I can no more define myself that way as I can in the more obvious.

The ultimate question then:”Who am I?”

And I don’t think I’ve ever known that.

I’ve tried defining myself as a gender, but that’s not worked. I am that gender, but it’s only one dimension. I define myself as a writer, but that’s a passtime, a job, a love.

A good person? Well, mostly. No, that’s not fair to myself. I have moments of instability, but then don’t we all?

I aspire to better myself. Now I’m quoting Star Trek.

A geek? Well, I use technology to achieve aims and goals… and it interests me to be sure.

A vegetarian then?

No, defining yourself by what you do or don’t eat is as pointless as the rest.

A happy person? Bland but true. Mostly. Unless my identity is challenged.

But seeing as I’ve now identified that I don’t know what my identity is, can my identity can ever really be challenged?

It’s a circular argument, with no beginning and end; a moebius loop of black nylon, stretching and twisting but never going anywhere. It can no more be challenged than a flickering flame can be extinguished by a glance. It is but what it is is not defineable. I think therefore I am.

And where does that leave me?

It’s kind of odd now I’ve identified the underlying issue, and I realise now that perhaps not knowing who I am gives me the very freedom I’ve craved my whole life.

I don’t have to be what you want me to be. I don’t have to be what society wants me to be. I don’t have to be what work or play or custom make everyone else. I am fluid and can be whatever I need to be depending on the moment.

There are two things to be careful of mind you: first that I don’t just change myself and my mind to suit others or circumstance, and second, that if my awareness of this slips — if I forget — then I may land where I did with my friend: fixated on a single aspect of myself which is being questioned.

As with everything though, awareness is the key.