Lost in spacetime

A crisis of consciousness and identity

Photo by Shot by Cerqueira on Unsplash

How do you define yourself? By your job? Your money? Social status?

What if you’ve never actually defined yourself before?

I’ve always felt as if I was an outcast, someone on the fringes who couldn’t — or shouldn’t — make it into the inner circle. I’m sure my awkwardness, anxiety, and self-confidence always played factors. In some cases, it was off-putting and, in others, it put me off.

I’m not good enough, I’m not smart enough and, doggone it, people don’t like me.

Even if they do, I find ways to make them not like me. Usually it’s some sort of mental collapse. Or I keep pulling at threads.

I’m sorry I did that thing. I’m so sorry. How can I make it up to you?

Asking once might be understandable, but I keep asking, pulling until everything has unraveled. Now I did a thing and broke a thing. The person may not have been mad at me before, but at this point likely wants nothing to do with me.

It’s a compulsion, as if I’m looking for the person to move past it by constantly shoving it in their face. I guess it’s a compulsion and an obsession. I can’t stop myself.

Is that what defines me though: my neurodivergence? Possibly, but I hope not.

There are no instruction manuals or predefined processes on how to define yourself. Self-help books and shifty YouTube tutorials don’t seem to be good resources. There simply can’t be a universal playbook to follow, as no two people are alike.

I guess that means I need to figure this shit out on my own because I have no idea who the hell I am right now. Maybe I can’t. Maybe I won’t. I wonder if it’s too late in the game.

Sometimes it feels like I just have to drift through time and space until the clock runs out. Tick tock, buddy.

Here lies Marcello,
The foolish fellow.
Ne’er made a day of his time,
Lost in and out of his mind.

Robert Louis Stevenson would surely roll over in his grave if he read that.

It’s only over the course of the last few months, after deciding I need to redefine myself, that I realized I never had any definition at all. Just an amorphous existential blob. Oh, dumb irony. And a lazy metaphor.

This all stems from a career change. I’ve dreamt about being a private chef, food blogger, and a carpenter. I’ve started novels, collected recipes, and begun woodworking projects. Maybe sales would be a good fit. I think I’d be a good realtor or even a car salesman.

It’s all left me quite overwhelmed with more questions than answers. Both my identity and my abilities have come into question. What if I commit to the wrong thing? What if I fail?

I don’t care if I wait tables or paint houses to pay the bills. It’s not about a job, per se. It’s about who I am and how I can leave an indelible mark on the world. It’s so cliché, but I want to leave the world a better place than I found it and I don’t know how to do that.

I’m afraid. Of failing. Of adding undue burden to my family. Of being wrong.

Until I figure out who I am, I’m not sure I can ever be right.