Identity. That’s a strange concept, isn’t it? What is identity? What defines who we are? I looked up the definition in several dictionaries and got these lovely tid-bits:
“Sameness of essential or generic character in different instances”
“The distinguishing character or personality of an individual”
“The state or fact of remaining the same one, as under varying aspects or conditions”
“The sense of self, providing sameness and continuity in personality over time”
I have always been someone who had a particularly strong “sense of self.” I was never worried about going along with the crowd. In fact, I seemed to thrive on being different. That always seemed like a positive thing. I was always sure of whom I was and I still feel that way, but a recent experience made me question the reality of that feeling.
Since going away to college and getting married my parents have been graciously storing many of my things in my old bedroom. The items ranged from childhood memorabilia to leftover boxes from moving into apartments that were too small to accommodate all my “stuff.” Recently, my Mom asked me if I would come over and (finally) clean out my bedroom and take whatever I wanted to keep. Of course, I obliged—I have a house of my own now and it seemed like it was time.
I know it sounds ridiculous, but my room was practically a fossil—frozen in time from late high school and early college. Going into my room at all felt like opening a time capsule but I had no idea what I was in for actually emptying it of everything that it made it mine.
The first things that came out of the room were expected, and it felt good to remove them. I was working quickly and making lots of progress until I began to find pieces of myself. Almost everything that I touched brought back a distinct memory or had some sort of story. It was almost fun—sorting through toys and books that I loved as a kid, finding papers from college, cards from a bridal shower—it was delightful to have all these memories come flooding back to me.
Once I had everything cleared out of the room the only thing left for me to do was to take down the multitudes of pictures, drawings, posters and various other paraphernalia that I had stuck all over my wall. I began zealously—heartlessly taking down items without giving myself much time to think, but when I started taking down the photographs my heart began to ache. Over 10 years had passed since I put these photographs on my wall and they represented the people that were the most important to me at the time. As I began to take them down, one by one, I realized that my room was a time-machine. I had just watched my entire life flash before my eyes and these things on the wall were the last little bits left. I gazed upon the faces featured in those photographs and found myself staring at people who had been so dear to me, some of which still are, but various circumstances had wedged space between us and now those people, those friends aren’t a part of my life on a regular basis anymore. Over and over I found clues about what had been so important to me all those years ago and I was dumbfounded when I realized that I forgotten. I had forgotten who I was back then. Forgotten what mattered to that version of me. And I began to question my identity.
Looking back at the definitions of identity, the one that I found the most troubling was “the sense of self, providing sameness and continuity in personality over time.” If I had changed so much in 10 years, forgotten so much in 10 years, how could my identity be the same? What does it mean for us if our identity changes a little every year? In 20 years will I even recognize myself? Will I have completely forgotten who I was when I was a young girl?
I wrestled with this for awhile. It felt jarring to be faced with an overwhelming pile of belongings and memories that had become a puzzle that was a reflection; a reflection that I didn’t recognize anymore. This was overwhelming to process so I just packed everything up and left.
After everything was in my house, there were boxes and bags and bags and more bags of “stuff” piled everywhere. I started unpacking these ancient relics and reorganizing them into my home. And that’s when the magic began. Little by little all these things, the memorabilia, the compositions, the photographs, the notes from friends, began to find homes, seamlessly within my current life. And it dawned on me that the reason I had forgotten so much about my life 10 years ago was that I had completely separated myself from it. It was all trapped in that time-capsule bedroom of mine. And it didn’t belong there anymore. All those pieces of me belonged where I was. And almost as if they had a life of their own, they started to become a part of me once again. And I remembered.
It’s never too late to reach into your past and retrieve pieces of yourself that you didn’t think you wanted or needed. I realized that all those things that I thought weren’t a part of me anymore were just hidden underneath all the new layers and layers that I’ve acquired since then. But that didn’t mean that the pieces from my past were voided by the present. Somewhere, deep inside of all of us, lives each person that we used to be. And they live there, waiting for a time when we might need them again. And they are never truly lost. Through this experience, I have reached out to old friends and rediscovered hobbies that I had all but given up on…and I feel like I just remembered how to fly.
