Who am I? No, really, who am I?

It’s hard to deny how much mental illness has shaped my identity over the years. My greatest fears, my deepest longings, my strongest beliefs, my most remarkable abilities—all of them have been bent by the inescapable black hole of OCD. Even today, uncertainty intolerance drives my seeker personality, insisting that I understand the truth and meaning behind everything: everything about this world, everything about people, everything about existence, and especially, everything about myself. But who am I, really, beyond an insignificant human mind formed by OCD and crippled by the resulting depression? Does my life mean anything more?

Am I the incarnation of anxiety and fear? Is every action determined for me by the nonsense of my thoughts?

Am I the irony of loneliness and discontentment? Is my heart longing for more, but powerless to escape the excesses of my own mind?

Am I the epitome of futility? Am I just another purposeless soul searching for meaning where there is none to be found?

Am I the definition of fatally flawed? Could all my mistakes and insufficiencies equal reasons to die?

Am I the fulfillment of my deepest fears? Am I afraid of being deceived, yet living as a slave to OCD’s lies?

No, I cannot be those things. I won’t be. There must be more.

I am the darkness within the cave, but also the light outside. I am the bitter taste of failure, and the sweetness of victory when I thrive. I am a beautiful wreck teeming with life. I am the thorn stuck within my own side. I am the rainbow and the storm. I am the plank but also the eye.

I am more. I am more than my illness; my purpose is more than pain. I am more than just thoughts and feelings; I am above the nonsense and the lies. I am more than this body, and I am more than my mind. My value is more than this life; I will not be defined.

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