There's this poem I read called "The Invitation" which basically challenges the reader to really think about who they are. Without all their stuff. Without their so-called accomplishments. Without the people they hang out with. Without all the frippery the world uses to define you.
It was a frightening thought.
I wasn't in the best of moods when I came home from work, so I downed some food and planned on sulking on the computer, but then I realized that it was raining. I love the rain. So I decided that I'd go for a walk to one of my favorite places. It was during that time I figured out who I am, stripped down to the bones.
I talk to myself and have jolly conversations. I talk to birds, cows, and any other wildlife that happen to be in the area, and I enjoy it thoroughly.
I laugh because I'm soaked to my knees from walking in the wild wet grass, and I lift my face to be kissed by the descending drops.
I notice small things; trees are blossoming in pinks and whites, there's an unusually beautiful pebble lying on the ground, the drizzly pavement makes elegant reflecting puddles for the streetlights.
I mourn the nearly-empty canal.
I found out who I am while I was standing in the middle of a forgotten field:
I don't need the meds, I don't have to deal with the drama, I don't need to waste my time worrying what other people think about me.
I'm satisfied with merely being.