audience query (july 27, 21)
i don’t know who i am outside of the context of others.
i like to think that i can find some identity in myself, or even in my interests or the people that love me because i really do think that’s the basis of human identity; you are defined by, not by the imprint you leave but the things that made the mold. you exist, more because of the chalk outline, than because you are what laid there, taking up space. but that definition’s a little bit lacking, right? when, and in what ways, do you start to factor into your own identity?
when i delve into topics like beauty and love and admiration, i can only think, “why do i have this skin if not to show it to you?” i’m sure it does numbers for getting others to notice me, but it isn’t very helpful from a cognitively-healthy perspective. my skin is mine, and it will do more for me than it will ever do for anyone else, so it frustrates me that my instinct upon understanding that is external is to relinquish it to others. and the thought extends past the literal use of skin; i am overly eager to give myself up (spill my guts) in all regards. (probably) because of how i was socialized, is my identity tied to its ease of commodification? is identity best used as a sort of name tag?
what sense of definition do you have outside of what is made by others? is perception not the only way to know who you are?
conversely, there is something to be said about the romantic notion that we are all beautiful patchwork-mosaics of everything we’ve encountered and internalized. we are what our peers teach us and what our parents model for us and what every authority denies us. it’s sweet and makes my eyes well up to be reminded of every friend i’ve fallen out of touch with, but unfortunately, it does very little to inform who i am in the vacuum, without my mold or chalk outline.
even when i am alone, i find myself being tied to the things i like or conversations i had with friends in the hopes of creating some structured idea of myself. maybe identity comes with age, when the faces and specifics in the patchwork-mosaic of your past become a little too blurred for them to have a hold on you. you’ve had real time in the vacuum, between leaving school and people going separate ways, when you’ve had nothing but time to sort out what kind of person you want to be.
maybe it’s not the worst thing in the world, to not have a clear idea of myself. i have lived a comparatively short time and have seen very little of the world; i am okay to be incomplete. and i am okay to be someone who has the same handwriting as her mom and who can’t get enough of D&D shows and who is, remarkably, loved, in the meantime.
