I was making little narratives up about myself in order to exist. I was inventing stories about myself in order to obtain some kind of an identity. “I’m this,” I would say to myself, or “I’m that.” In this way I would start – with slow and painful effort – to gain a bit of foothold, a tiny bit of a ledge on the sheer cliff-face of endlessness to cling onto, so that I wouldn’t fall down into the immeasurable abyss of radical non-identity. I really didn’t want to fall into the abyss of radical non-identity – I was very scared indeed of the thought of it. Shit scared. Terrified. I didn’t care what sort of a crappy identity I ended up with – anything would do, anything that meant that I didn’t have to go plummeting head over heels into the frightful abyss of not being anybody, not being anything at all. The void. I would be grateful for anything that saved me from that – any alternative was preferable. I really didn’t care at all! Anyway, that’s my story! That’s how I ended up being me…


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