I can’t imagine wanting to be anyone (or anything) but me. In a dream, maybe something else — a horse, an eagle, a dolphin. But that’s dream stuff, not reality. I grew into accepting myself pretty quickly, dysfunctional family notwithstanding. By the time I was in my 20s, was reasonably fond of at least the mental part of me. Physically, though, I’ve always had issues with my body.
Ill health has stalked me from early on. By the time I was in my late 20s, I used to laugh and tell people that, with the help of modern medicine, I’m living proof the unfit can survive.
So here I am, alive and complaining. Since early ill-health, I’ve moved on to major ill-health. I’m sure someone else has even more after-market parts than me, but I’ve never personally met anyone who has. The good news? I’ll never be an unidentified Jane Doe on the autopsy table because I carry cards with serial numbers identifying my various implants. My body would be easily tracked.
So here’s the thing. I don’t want to be someone or something else. Not for a year or a day. What I want is to be is me. I’d prefer to be the all-original, functional me, but since that won’t happen, I’ll take being me. I’d have no idea how to be anyone else.
Would anyone know how to be someone else? I think being someone else would be completely bizarre. Whatever rocks we have in our heads, they are our rocks. We know those rocks well and have grown fond of them.
I’ll keep being me. I’m glad I’m still alive and with a little luck, there’s a future ahead. It won’t last as long as what is behind me, but it’s there. And it’s waiting for me to show up.