Identity theft.

identity

/ʌɪˈdɛntɪti/

noun

1. the fact of being who or what a person or thing is.

We’re living in a generation so entrapped in the search for self, I’m starting to question whether this version of ourselves we’re so adamant on finding, even exists.

Why are we so intent on FiNdInG oUrSeLvEs? If we find whatever it is we’re looking for, will we be satisfied?

We tend to use external things such as our name, our appearance, our job and our friends as a defining factor of who we are. Labels, labels, labels. But what happens when we take these things away?

Who are you? I imagine you would start with your name and follow it with a description; a justification of your existence. Would you describe your appearance? Your personality? Your occupation? The amount of sex you have? Are these things really who you are?

I really hope not because I'm unemployed and haven’t had sex in so long, I might be considered a born-again virgin.

At 15 I was diagnosed with leukaemia. Indeed, the big c. Heavy shit. A hard thing for anyone to go through, let alone a 15-year-old girl; not yet sure of ‘whom’ she is.

I lost my hair, I lost my ‘friends’, I lost a big part of my childhood; I lost everything that mattered to me. All the things I associated myself as, gone. The diagnosis stole the identity I believed I once had. Struggling to grasp onto any idea of self, I was forced to really question; “who the fuck am I?”

For a while, I found an answer in my new reality, as someone who was dying. Was that it? Was that all I was? ‘The dying chick’ - it did have a ring to it; would probably make a great blog name I thought (can I trademark that??). Maybe it was the fact that I hadn’t had an identity of my own before this, perhaps it was the sense of certainty surrounding it; but there was a comfort in knowing that this label I had was real, I didn’t have to fake it, this wasn’t just my reality; it was me.

I would love to tell you that after it all, I’ve figured it out; I’ve discovered who I am and have an easy to follow, 7 step guide on finding thyself (with pictures). ‘Girl recovers from cancer and figures out the secret to finding yourself’. Imagine? I’d be fucking rich and you’d have a sense of... fulfilment?

I’ll let you in on a little ‘secret’, I have not figured it out (go on, act surprised). I refuse to question my being, to try and define myself, to fit nicely into a sentence. What would be the point of that? My comfort? Yours?

Sure, the labels we use to define ourselves are relevant, you might be a mother, you might have depression and you might make a living off having sex with people; but when did the labels become so limiting?

We write these stories of who we are, in the moment; and expect ourselves to be this version indefinitely. We punish ourselves for not being this person years later. Once upon a time, you were that person. But your story has changed, you have changed and will continue to change each and every day. You are not the same person today, as you were yesterday. How could you be? More importantly, how could you expect yourself to be? Believe it or not, you are under no obligation to be who you were 5 minutes ago.

Don’t attach yourself to a definition because you’re scared of just, being.

Our realities change. If nothing else, we can count on that. We fall in love, we graduate from school, we lose loved ones, we temporarily get psychosis and forget who our mum is (just me?). We are constantly going through a process of grabbing and losing. Maybe this is identity? To be in a process of becoming, rather than being; a passing experience.

So maybe we’ll never know ‘who’ we are? Does it really matter though?

A tad anticlimactic, but I never promised you enlightenment, did I?