Who do I think I am?

I’ve been on hold with “the government” for half an hour so far (this time). I don’t know if it’s a sign of my boredom, my impatience or my need to embrace tech, but I just tried to Shazam the hold music.

I tried three times, and there’s no match. Whatever obscure, piano-laden God’s waiting room music they’re using, Shazam either can’t hear it or can’t find it.

My government and I are engaged in a months-long quest to prove I am who I say I am. No one seems to know why, out of umpty-million people, I was especially chosen for this task. There’s been no shenanigans. None of the personal and relationship upheaval I’ve experienced in the last few years has messed with who I am (well, it has, I’m getting to that.) It’s just red tape tedium and a major thorn in my side.

So on my day off, I spend an hour or more on hold, eventually reach a real live person, and accomplish minor progress. If I added it all up so far, we’d be at about two full work days worth of hours. Wouldn’t it be great if I could send a bill?

Don’t we all wonder, sometimes, if we are who we think we are? 

The storm that blew through my life a couple of years ago wrought havoc on my understanding of reality. Up was down, black was white, and almost every single thing I believed about my life and the people in it appeared to be wrong. The phrase “life-changing” doesn’t even come close to describing the depth and breadth of the damage I experienced.

You fight to find analogies or metaphors at times like those. If you’re inclined toward language, like I am, you try even harder to find the words that will accurately describe the significance of what has happened. If you’ve spent 20+ years, like I had, in recovery circles, you reach for slogans, cliches, platitudes. It’s never too late to become what you might have been. Count your blessings. Everything happens for a reason. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.

I read something online today: don’t give words that rhyme to people who are struggling. 

In the earliest days, long before the shock had hardened into despair, I would gaze blankly outward, my inner monologue running at warp speed. Who am I? I thought I was this, and I thought we were this, and how long has my life been not what I thought it was? I found myself a stranger in a strange land; people were embracing the transition into a post-Covid world while I tried to process the level of deception I’d experienced and the shocking complicity of people I called friends.

Everyone was getting out and about and I didn’t want to get out of bed.

I’d heard about this kind of emotional paralysis happening to women when relationships ended. I’d thought I was immune; after all, I had my own tastes in music, movies, books, hobbies. Sure they aligned with who I was living with - affinity is a big part of relationships, after all - but I’d always considered myself a complete individual. (I’ll eventually unpack my arrogance in this space, but not today)

But all of a sudden, I couldn’t look in a mirror. I couldn’t stand to get dressed. Any of the daily routines - brushing my teeth, putting on eyeliner, getting into bed at night - that I had carried out alongside this person for thirty years now seemed impossible. Sharing time and space with someone for that long is like an intricate dance - just try doing a salsa or a waltz by yourself. You can’t.

Somewhere inside, though, was the whisper of a certainty: I’m still me. I just wasn’t entirely sure who that was.

There’s a reason we’re in love with reboots and remakes and next-gen versions of our favourite pop culture touchstones. It’s the modern-day version of being visited by the ghost of Christmas future. Did the high school romances pan out? When faced with two paths in the woods, did the one we took really make all the difference? Did we learn anything from the mistakes we made in our twenties? Did the jock, the brain, the princess, the bully and the loner stay that way?

We love epilogues and flash forwards. Tell us it all turned out okay. That Cory and Topanga got married, that Princess Leia became a general, that JR got his comeuppance.

And when the ending - or at least, the present - makes no sense, we look back. We’re not expecting a do-over, so much as we’re searching for logical course correction. 

So I’m spending a lot of time figuring out who I was and who I am and who I might become. I reconnect with people who’ve known me even longer than my marriage lasted. Their assessments are surprisingly similar.

“Savagely independent.”

“You knew what kind of person you wanted to be and no one could change your mind.”

“You were very determined.”

“Individual. Stubborn.”

Well then. 

Not long ago one of my children sent me a Reel (she’s a Millennial) by spoken word poet @JosieBalka, called Your parents weren’t always parents. The whole thing brings me to tears (many things still do, now) but there’s a line that particularly resonates: they were just people, unsure of it all.

That’s pretty apt. I  have been - am - so many things, for so many reasons. Before I was this, I was that, and before I was that, I was this other thing. All me, all along, And always, all the things that are helping me sort through the wreckage and find my way through. Stubborn. Independent. Just a person, a little unsure, but I’m still me.

I doubt it will be good enough for the government though.