Somehow, my leap of faith turned into a banjee jumping session. I don't know if you can imagine my surprise. I didn't know I was tied at all! Invisible and immaterial as they were, there was no way I could sense the ropes' existence.
But invisible and immaterial though they were, they were there, as real as anything else, visible and material.
And they pulled me back.

I remember jumping. The jump itself was easier than I had expected. Preparing for it proved to be much more difficult and straining in comparison.
Oh, yes, the jump was almost fun. There was a sense of wild freedom that only recklessness can bring. It was full of adrenaline and excitement for taking my destiny into my own hands so decisively. There was a feeling of achievement, of satisfaction for finally putting a plan into action. There was also fear, but the manageable kind. It was the fear of the unknown, one of the most basic instincts of survival, expected and understandable.
Then was the fall. Free falling through emptiness, speeding like crazy, was the moment of judgement, the moment that put my faith through the test. Fear, blood-chilling, hair-rising, more-terror-than-fear fear, filled my mind and pushed everything else to the side. It was almost impossible to remember what I was doing or why; hard to recall that it had been my choice or how it had seemed like the best option at some point. Way above the ground level and way below my jumping point, it was difficult to understand what I was doing, falling like that. Why had I put myself in such a position? Had I gone crazy, perhaps? It seemed a rather possible explanation at that time.
However, getting accustomed to the falling sensation - the wind whistling in my ears, cooling my face, playing with my hair - it all started coming back to me; the who's and the what's, the how's and the why's. I began remembering, if only mechanically, the reasons and the reasoning behind my choice. I was still scared beyond my wits, but I didn't feel blackmailed by my own self, at least.
Until that point I had let go of many things. I had let go of the past; of an alternative present that could have been, but didn't; of a lost future - the remote possibility of which shouldn't concern me anymore; of what I had been, could have been, was and would be had things gone different; of the ground as I climbed on my cliff; of my cliff as I jumped into nothingness.

And, so, in the middle of my fall, I let go of the only thing I hadn't already; I let go of fear.

There were many things I was afraid of at the time, but I realized that most of all I was afraid of having to change as a person. There was no way I could stay the same, I would inevitably be changed, and that change was actually half the point of my jump. I had wanted to change, and, as I had predicted and planned, I had already started changing from the first time I seriously considered jumping. And then I kept changing, step by step, from decision-making, to planning, to execution. Falling, I was changing faster than ever and the uncontrollability of that change came in opposition with the innate need of identity. Ironically, losing the fear of changing into something unknown, increased the rate of my changing. I had finally given permission to myself to freely change in response to the rapid changes around it.
Thus, along with my fear, went my sense of self. I wasn't me; I didn't know who I was, I could have been anyone, really, but I certainly wasn't me. Of course, this brings us to a linguistic, if not ontological, paradox. Can you not be you? You being you is a self-evident fact. You can not be someone, but you can't not be you, because you can't be anyone without being them.
So, how could I not be who I was? The way I see it, I not being me, was a transitional phase between two different "I am me" phases. I was stuck with the first meaning of the subject I, but I had changed to the second meaning of the object me. Thus, I had an I and a me but instead of being different forms of the same concept, they were different forms of different concepts. It would be pretty much the same thing, if we were having a conversation and didn't know that when you say I and you, I'm supposed to understand you and I, and when I say I and you, you're supposed to understand you and I.
In any case, what makes one feel oneself is a complex business that falls outside the point of this report. The point is that the questions with the most obvious, self-evident answers can prove to be the most challenging and interesting and stimulation of all, if you find the courage to doubt their answers. It's not the doubting for the sake of doubting that does the trick, rather than the re-evaluation that can succeed it.
Returning to my falling, I was at the point that I didn't feel like myself at all. Practically speaking, it wasn't an unpleasant feeling, only somewhat uncomfortable, like wearing somebody else 's shoes. The real discomfort of a situation like this comes from knowing that you can't stay in between identities for long. Sooner or later, you'll be someone again. But that someone will also be you, so, yet again, you'll be you. While in an identity-free state, the idea of being someone again (or - more accurately - being you again) is frustrating for many reasons. First of all, you must have already fed up with being you, since you brought yourself to the point of renouncing your identity. But, also, you are about to carry the responsibility of your next identity, which you are going to choose much more consciously given the circumstances.
In any case, the moment I entered into that identity-free state, was the moment my new identity began to form. That was when two things started happening at the same time, both feeding each other in a circle of positive feedback with no beginning or end. The first was that, instead of simply changing into a new person, I started changing into who I used to be, at the same time. Some things were new, others were as old as I was, possibly older. The second was that I experienced a decrease in my speed.
The more my identity was forming, the more my speed was decreasing. The more my speed was decreasing, the more my identity was forming.
Until, finally, I came to a halt. I hovered only for an infinitesimal second, but I was in full clarity of the moment. I knew and understood what had happened, what was happening and what would happen depending on my choice: cut the ropes and continue falling or let them pull me back up? In that lone second I had plenty of time to make my choice.

Thus, the ropes that had always been there, but had not worked properly for some time, pulled me decisively and effectively when they were stretched to their full length.
They didn't save me; I wasn't in danger in order to be able to be saved.
They didn't restrain me; I had the choice to cut them once I realized they were there.

But I wanted them. I had only doubted their existence because I had misinterpreted their absence. They had been there all along, but they had gotten tired and weak. As my lack of faith was a non-sufficient but certainly a necessary condition for this, the revival of my faith was both a necessary and sufficient condition for the restoration of our bond. In just one second of mutual respect and acceptance we renewed our connection.

Now, I'm soaring upwards in the air, being pulled towards all that matters to me. I'm myself, changed and the same; It's not the facts that have changed, only the ways. It's not the destination that has changed, but the route.
The most important part of my identity - what I love, what I care about - is the same. The way I love what I love, and what I am willing to do for this love... that is what has changed.