Who Am I?

I try to make a practice of answering the questions I ask myself. You know the ones. The rampant, seemly benign questions that run through your head at break neck speed. Often we don’t even hear ourselves asking them. As a therapist, I hear my clients questions of themselves. It is always easier to hear others questions.


So last week when I asked, “Who am I?” or, to be exact, “Who the hell am I?” I set out to answer myself, again.


Interestingly and serendipitously my answer came as a result of renaming this blog to being Boswell. My friend, Wikipedia, informed me that the surname Boswell was passed into the English Language as a term…Boswellian, Boswellism…meaning a constant companion and observer of life, especially one who records those observations through writing. Who knew?


I have been writing stories or journaling since my first, locked, with the tiniest key ever, diary was given to me in grade school. I began my entries with Dear Diary. I quickly abandoned that salutation when I realized I wanted to write to a reader, not to an inanimate object. I longed to tell my version of life to someone. I felt less alone conjuring a reader nodding his or her head in shared recognition of an examined moment, possibly even laughing or crying with me as I spilled my version of life onto the page. I hoped my imaginary audience would feel less alone and more understood as I exposed myself to self scrutiny.


So here I am, 40 some years later, with the technological creation of the über diary.  I write you read. I feel blessed.


I have been being me all along, I just didn’t know it!


Take a look at this…it is a scene from Sherlock Holmes talking to Watson. FInding my name has been very validating…


Patricia Boswell

One comment on “Who Am I?

  1. Patricia, now I got it, and it was wonderful. I just finished a book which I kind of think (but am not sure) that you would like — and maybe love as I did. Paul Auster’s WINTER JOURNAL. I would love to talk with you about it, but in a nutshell, it is a memoir as he approaches what he considers to be old age (the winter of my life, he says) — he is turning 64. It is written in the second person, which is an astonishing experience. It is also full of the tiniest of details (which might be tedious for some) which for me gave enourmous texture to the novel. It is totally insightful and revealing. There are other characters in the novel, but only through his eyes, they don’t exist as self-sustaining characters.
    You just kind of feel like he has opened this door to you and has invited you into his soul, his mind, his memory . . . his life.
    I may be wrong, but I think you will find it absorbing and satisfying as I did. It was published this year — 2012.

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