The Spiral of Questioning Ourselves
Purpose: An identity crisis is a challenge, but also an opportunity to grow and transform as an individual
Where to begin? I do not know. I don’t know how to start, nor do I know when to end. What I do know is that this is all in my head. Though the last 14 years have been amidst the quiet suburbs of Woy Woy, raised in a group of religious entities, the straight nature of information has sparked my curiosity about the truth, of the past, of my identity. Once like second nature, my beliefs of who I am and what makes me me, once a painting of black and white, is now just a haze of grey.
Today, an identity crisis remains a constant conflict to the growth of individuals. Yet, at times, I succumb to the black and white, throbs of pain knowing there was more to everything that I thought. I am reminded of my burdens, role and part in the dilemma I call my identity.
My mother speaks of my younger self before she entered highschool, a hardworking and innocent girl. A city of diverse life, filled with untold stories, as new skyscrapers rose with Time throughout the city to accompany her. Today I reconstruct the past through stories and memories, consuming the truths and the lies of the past, the black, the grey and the white. I listen to her stories, her wins of competitions of speeches and acts of characters untold, imagining a present where she was still the girl I call myself.
In these times, I have realised that the truth of our identities is infinitely more complicated. While the beliefs of Catholicism once allowed me to migrate between belonging, culture and spiritual distance, they cannot allow me to grasp my own dreams of becoming the person I want to become.
From a young age I couldn’t imagine what the future may hold. One in which I was happy. Somewhere in the folds of Time lived a girl surrounded by true smiles and outreached hands. Whose face wasn’t stained with tear marks, instead, eyes scrunched from reading in the dim of lights. I cannot remember when the dreams started. It must have been in times of isolation where I pondered about what my life could have been like.
Although I’m now here in the future, the ghost of my childhood persists into my adolescence. Despite the fact that she lives in the dark chapters of the past, drowning in her past mistakes and fuck-ups. As I spent my nights crying under soft sheets, muffling my cries from travelling through papery walls, I would gaze through the folds of time, through the dark chapters, building a fantasy in my mind of a different story altogether. Eagerly I waited for someone to come and knock on my door as though someone had finally noticed that I wasn’t okay. As I grew older, the ghost felt more real in my dreams. I felt as though I could see her through the gateway of glass known as Erised, waiting patiently just on the other side for a hand. Afterwards, as I would waft in and out of consciousness, I would cling fiercely to that story. The solace of being at home once more amidst the stories of Time I dreamed of.
After the identity crisis, the reverse would come true. The city would isolate itself from the skyscrapers, forgetting its existence, literature and culture. The city I was, revolutionised and left a city of ruins. I have developed a blistering resentment towards the puppet masters of Time that lingers inside me, grasping at the hope to retain whatever feelings I have left and reform the connections of my childhood. Despite Time, my ghost has developed into a working organ, an extension of broken pieces I call myself, influencing everything in hand’s reach.
There have been instances where self-reflection has led me to examine my circumstances. Why did I have to go through that at such a young age? Why was I the one to go through it? Why wasn’t I good enough for them? And yet, while Time expects my love and loyalty, in the end I do love them, not for what they did, but for what they can do. That there is more to life than the struggles of the past. I have developed a sense of acceptance at the betrayal of Time and his challenges, living in the shadows of my soul.
Yet, the ghost that lives inside me insists that I have to move on. And if were purely a matter of resilience, I find myself filled with a strength that sometimes weakened but never bent. I believe my resilience took me away from the hands of Death, standing amidst the cues of questions and no answers.
And in my acceptance of this resilience, I welcome the broken, blemished pieces of myself in their intricacy. The crisis of identity, yet brings acceptance and transformation to make me believe that Time cannot stop no story.