Identity Theft

When I was 25, I had my identity stolen.  It took a few years, several disputed purchase investigations, and locking my credit files to finally move past the financial frustrations caused by that event and I took from it a very important lesson:  No matter how hard you work to build your financial self, someone out there at any moment can tear it all down.

I heard someone say something interesting once:  "It takes distance to gain perspective".  At the time those words were shared, the speaker was wanting me to see the light as it played through the leaves of a tree and was just telling me to back up a bit to take it all in.  It took me way longer than I'd care to admit to realize the depth of those words.  I needed perspective from the moment to gain insight, which meant I needed time between it and myself.  My father, for instance, left this realm almost 11 years ago.  he is buried some 50 miles from my home so it could be said that my father waits some 50 miles away from me.  It can also be said that my father waits some 11 years separated from his son. Oh how I lament the comparative absence of romantic thinkers who might first conceive the latter.

Much in this way, "identity theft" can be thought of as something much more profound than the accumulation of illicit financial charges perpetrated in our name.  It can, with the proper perspective, be thought of as the result of faulty conceptions of ourselves and others.  For ourselves in the sense that the failure to properly understand who we are in as objective a manner as we can manage robs ourselves of honest self acceptance and proper integration.  For others, in the sense that failing to see those around us as honestly and as completely as we can robs them of true acceptance and real appreciation at best and utterly decimates them at worst.

What then happens when someone very close to you inadvertently steals your identity because their own experiences and traumas have taught them to perceive you incorrectly?  A personal reflection:  Someone very dear to me was put through metaphorical hell in life by the men closest to them.  A father and a former spouse each took their toll on this person, slowly poisoning their understanding of how men act and what those actions mean to the point that they automatically perceive every action of mine through this bent lens.  Despite wanting to believe me to be honest and possessing of integrity, and even professing this belief at times, my identity is stolen in each and every instance in which they are convinced beyond reason that I must be exactly like the men they've known before me. No matter what I do or do not do, I am guilty before I do or do not do it.  The mold of a scoundrel is set before me and I am merely poured and pressed to fit it.  I cannot express to you how that feels beyond saying it greatly hurts, is profound in its loneliness, and simply ought not be.