Hopes And Dreams | A Book of Ideas, Poems, and Venting

Who Am "I"?

One late night, when I was feeling particularly low and confused, I asked my friends what seemed to be one of the simplest questions to answer: Who am I?

Many of them saw it to be as easy a question to give a response to as it should've been: I was me.  I was whoever I was made out to be, whoever my beliefs led me to be.  I was the person that I wanted to be.  So, when given this generic—and, at the time, perplexing, answer—I posed a new query for them: Okay, but who is "I"?

Again, whoever I yearned to be.

Who "I" wanted to be was complicated, considering that "I" could be many people at the time, and most of my friends weren't even aware of that fact, and only one could truly grasp that fact.  And despite encouragement and kind words from my friends, I shut down.  I gave up.

I'd been thinking about it constantly, replaying the question over and over again until it was a muddled mess in my mind, more confusing than it had been when I'd asked the question the first time, asking my friends to provide me with an answer, with comfort.  Who was I?  I didn't know.  I'd never know, at this rate.

I gave up on the question until recently, writing down who "I" could be for the purpose of others' understanding.  And the more I wrote down, the more I understood, the more I felt comfort.  Knowing who these people were—they were all me.  But, at the same time, they weren't.

These people were not Adam.  These people were not Bethany.

But, for all intents and purposes, that's exactly who they were.

They were the crybaby, who couldn't handle their emotions well and spiralled into deep, depressive states, who never asked for help from anyone when they were sad and seemingly could never get ahold of themselves.

They were the mediator, who only cared about their friends and no one else, who seemed cold and pragmatic but at the same time impartial.

They were the sweetheart, the person everyone loved because of their positive out look and absolutely adorable personality, who shielded herself from harm with a smile.

They were the murderer, who didn't care who you were, and would hurt you and wish to kill you no matter how close to them you are.

They were the fuckboy, who wanted sex whenever he appeared, and who would flirt with anyone in the vicinity, no matter who they were.

And they were the child, who couldn't handle stress as well as others could, but still had the energy, the imagination, and the blissful naivety of a little kid.

They were all me.

But...I was not them.

Despite this discovery, my question went unanswered.

So one late night, later that week, when I was still feeling low and confused, I sat on Cassie's bed and asked her what seemed to be one of the simplest questions to answer: Who am I?

She gave me a confused smile, then hugged me and said, "You're my kid, you're an amazing friend, and you're the best little writer I've ever seen.  Does that answer your question?"

Surprisingly, it did.  The relief was so overwhelming that I found myself crying there like a baby.  And she was probably shocked by my actions, but they didn't repel her.  In fact, she seemed to only pull me closer, without saying a word.

So...after all that, who am I, really?
In the end, the answer was simple.
I was me, whoever that was in the moment.
But through it all, at the heart.
I was the child of Cassie.
I was a friend.
And I was a writer.