Who Am I?

Who am I?

I am a woman, of that I am certain.

Beyond that, though, the definition gets hazier. And as that haze thickens, so does my sense of self-value, of purpose, of direction.

I work within corporate America, but I am not a professional. I am a wife, but not a subordinate. I am the one who cleans the house and prepares the meals, but I am not a homemaker. I have no children, so, no, I am not a mother. I love to sing, but badly and off-key. I am not a singer. I spend inordinate amounts of time in my car, but I am not a driver. I hate people, so I am not a socialite. I drink, but modestly, and I am not an alcoholic. I complain and criticize, but I am hardly a worthy critic. I love a good argument, but stumble on my words; I am not a debater. Rage empowers me, but I am not a fighter. Color, shape, movement captivate me, but I am not an artist. Music haunts me, but I am no musician. I am not poor, but far from wealthy. I am the nebulous middle class (in and of itself defiant of definition). I am patriotic, but I’m not a fanatic. I cringe at intolerance, but equally so at political correctiveness. I am 29, hardly a 20-something but not yet a 30-something. Am I my parent’s daughter? My brothers’ sister? My lover’s wife?

Am I a writer?

This, this eats at me. Today I feel shriveled, a shrunken, ill-fitting shadow of a former, eloquent self. Of all the uncertainties I contend with, I always had words. With ease, I could wrap myself in their power, their definitiveness, their cathartic nature. But now that question hangs in the air, oppressive, engulfing. Am I a writer?

And if not, who am I?

I was introduced to the most phenomenal band a few weeks back. Watching them perform, I felt in the presence of a power I had never experienced. They weren’t performing the music, they were the music. Their songs had no words, and did not need them. Beauty, sadness, loneliness, redemption, realization, pain…their songs were laced with emotion, not one note played that did not bore directly into my soul. I thought, as I sat in the theatre, “These guys are defined by their music.” Who are they? They are that power. They are that emotion. They are those feelings that each song urges the listener to share. They embraced creativity so completely that it enveloped them: they and their music were indistinguishable, the music, the symphonic interpretation of the human who created it. The magnitude of this thought has not left me, even as I write this weeks later. Why? Because their definition of who they are is so real, so substantial, that I will never forget it.

Particularly since I haven’t even figured out my own definition yet.

I yearn for that so much it hurts.

I want my definition to be real. To be substantial. To be me. Who am I? Am I me? Or am I some interpretation of myself, someone I’ve created to fill in for me? Am I a variation on a theme? Or the prelude? I pray I am not the refrain; this is not a self I care to repeat. I feel too nebulous. Too in-between. I feel like I am staring at the door marked “Me” yet my hand stays frozen at my side. Perhaps I’ve grown too comfortable in this caricature I allowed life to draw. Perhaps fear is what keeps me from opening the door. Fear that I won’t like the definition. Fear that maybe I won’t ever be defined. Fear that I will fail at the one thing I’ve always assumed would one day define me. Fear that if I do, there won’t be another door marked, “Me”.

Copyright © 2007