by Aetherias Moon

Photo by Pixabay

The One Who Walks at Dawn

I used to walk at dawn every day. I would put on Writing Excuses and learn about writing while winding through the infinitely connecting suburbs. I would leave when the world had turned indigo, alongside the birds chirping as they woke up. The sky would lighten in shades of pink, orange, and violet. One day the sky faded into a beautiful violet, the whole heavens dominated by that color for a little while.

I walked so much at dawn that I broke a chunk of it off and stuck it to me, telling myself that it defined me. With Dissociative Identity Disorder, a condition where you have multiple personalities and identity confusion, it’s hard to maintain a sense of self. I don’t feel connected to reality and I need things that help ground me. For me, I found identity in the things that I did, and I think everyone does this. It’s just for me it became almost holy. It really should have just been a small thing, something I did that told a little bit about me, but instead, it became sanctified. I walk at dawn. That’s an aspect of me. It’s who I am.

Spoiler: I don’t walk at dawn anymore. Yet I still find that concept of who I am stuck in my mind. Now that wouldn’t be the biggest deal if I didn’t feel like a fraud because I don’t walk at dawn anymore, if I didn’t attack myself because of it. Even if it’s wrong of me to hurt myself over it, isn’t it kind of right though? That doesn’t really define me anymore. But what if we were talking about something like writing?

Photo by Lum3n

The One Who Writes

Fun fact: I am a writer. I’ve been writing since I was a little kid. It’s always been my life path. But when I hit 20, I started really taking it seriously. I dedicated more time to it. I finally finished the first draft of a novel after starting and stopping a million books. I finally allowed myself to put on the label of “writer” and I swear I branded that into my soul. Around that time, I struggled the most with my identity than I ever had. I was on the brink of discovering my Dissociative Identity Disorder and I clung to the idea of being a writer. I didn’t have a clue who I was or what was going on, but I had writing. Writing was me. It was all I had to hold on to.

Then I spent two years not writing.

How did not writing for so long while being a writer affect my mind? I mean, luckily I was already so depressed I wouldn’t get out of bed and had basically forsaken existing, that I could pretend I had peeled off my writer’s identity. But I hadn’t. It clung to me and made me sick. It stressed me out and gave me anxiety. I had writer’s block from hell. It was especially hard because I was in the midst of my creative writing degree and was forced to write. I did well. I kept my grades up, but doing it was torture. I felt like an imposter the entire time.

So was I still a writer then?

I would say so, just a dormant one. And maybe that means that I’m simply a dormant person who walks at dawn, but I think some labels we outgrow overtime, and I think that second one I have.

But…I’m kind of worried that me clinging on to these things to stay sane might not actually be the best thing in the world.

Photo by Photo by Rakicevic Nenad

Creativity > Me

Fast forward to the present day and I’ve been struggling with critical thoughts more than ever. It’s so easy for me to find flaws in myself and, by extension, my writing. I’ve been going through feedback on one of my novels and can barely stand it. Everything feels like it’s raking into my soul and taking chunks of me with it.

It shouldn’t be that painful. So why is it?

I spoke to my therapist about it and found out something that was perhaps quite obvious. My ego, my sense of self, is attached to being a writer. Yeah…that thing I just told you about, I had forgotten that seemingly obvious fact. For many reasons, creativity and writing have always been something extremely important to me. Making up stories protected me growing up, and for a long time I considered my creations to be more important than myself.

So it’s not really hard logic to follow. If I am equivalent to my writing, then when my writing is scrutinized, I am scrutinized. Not that the feedback was mean or anything, but it felt so close to me, so intimate in a way, that it hurt. My story, my soul, was being seen and picked apart.

What am I supposed to do? I need to be able to take feedback and criticism on my work. If I want to become a better writer and make the best possible pieces, it is imperative.

I need to let go.

Letting go

I am a writer, but I don’t think I want it to be so intrinsically tied to my identity anymore. I write, I’m an author, you can’t take that away from me, but I think I’m doing this identity thing wrong. It’s almost performative, it’s conditional, it’s difficult.

But I just want to be me. I just want to be Aether, to be Kira, Elira, Emane, etc. I don’t want to be anything else. “Writer” can be a descriptor of me, but not me.

I don’t know if I’m making sense. The distinction is truly slight and might only make sense to me. But I’ve been trying to let go of these external things that help ground me. I’m trying to be okay, just existing as whoever I am. I don’t need to be defined. I don’t need to be anything.

I can just be.

I don’t need to be the one who walks at dawn.

I don’t need to be the one who bakes, who draws…

Who writes.

I’m just me.

-Aether

Thank you for reading my post. I hope it gave you something to think about. If you enjoy posts about mental health and life, as well as fantasy short stories, consider sticking around!