To have an identity one has to be first of all thinking and secondly thinking about oneself. Why would one do that in the first place? Is there not plenty else to do? Is there not plenty else to discover?
If one accidentally strays into that territory, two errors necessarily occur, or at least must be sidestepped to arrive at any informative truth.
Firstly, one identifies a label and its clustering features. I'm British, so do I eat crumpets? Listen to The Archers? Eschew emotion? Are those Britishness? Is someone who does not do such things not British? We have a convenient fiction, an explanatory abstraction. But not anything real. This is the first error: to take the purposive categorisation for a real entity or even a representation of it.
Secondly, one identifies oneself with the label. One finds examples that match the paradigm and claims: This is I! I am this! Whatever examples one finds are usually trivial and are invariably a vanishingly small fragment of the whole. This is the second error. In the words of Alan Bennett, at least in the words of a character in one of his plays, 'It's like making a career out of being five foot seven.'
The remedy is not to clutch a baker's dozen identities and assemble a personality (note, not character: rather, an external allure, a distinguishing avatar) from them but to reject the notion altogether.
I am still at liberty to believe, think, and do, but, in believing, thinking, and doing, I am not thereby becoming that which believes, thinks, or does that thing. Who I am can only absurdly be conflated with something I am presently believing, thinking, or doing or might at other times—yet not right now—be believing, thinking, or doing.
That lotus-eaters (λωτοφάγοι) are defined by what they consume and what that makes them is the stuff of legend not reality. The bicycle thieves (Ladri di biciclette) are bit parts in another's story. I am this. I am that. Who is the I that is the this or the that? Not the this or the that, because that would be a tautology (tomatoes are tomatoes!) Equating myself with something does not define that self, like the Severn bore washing up inland and on occasion overwhelming the floodbanks. It is an intruder; not a homecomer. Even were the land to be permanently occupied by floodwaters, the floodwaters do not tell of what came before their arrival and victory.
So, what is the nature of the country that is cleared, ploughed, and cultivated, or left to run wild, or overcome by swell and tide? The answer is not found in the impositions of man or the sea. Its story lies back of itself, behind itself, not ahead, not in front, not here, not now, but behind the curtain, round the corner, on the Island: if you are quiet, it will call. If you follow, it will lead. And then you'll know.