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boxofdelightsAndrea Gibson writes, here, about a problem I struggle with: the stories we tell ourselves, over and over, knowing that they harm us but not being able to stop:
For them, it works to write the story down, to build a fire with friends, and to put the story into the fire. For me, that doesn't work at all, not even as a metaphor. It takes so much work to pin the story down in fixed form on paper. Putting the paper into the fire releases the story from the paper, not me from the story; it jumps straight back into my head.
I tried putting the paper into the compost pile, thinking of compost as a sloooooooow burn; every time the story tried to jump back into my brain, I would tell it, "No, you live in the compost pile now. I can see you there." But eventually that paper decomposed, and the story moved back into my brain.
I'm going to try and tell some of those old stories here. That might pin them down away from my brain. I'll let you know how it goes.
For most of my adulthood I’ve been deeply interested in how stories impact our lives. Not so much the stories we tell as writers and artists, but the stories that live deep down in our nervous systems, and don’t necessarily serve us. The stories that chronically nag at our minds and unconsciously breed doubt, insecurity and fear. The stories about our unworthiness. The stories about the ways we are not enough or too much. The stories about how others have failed us, or how we have failed ourselves. The stories of how our lives would have turned out so much differently if only. “If only” is the saddest phrase in the universe, and one of the most painful “stories” to burden our spirits with.
For them, it works to write the story down, to build a fire with friends, and to put the story into the fire. For me, that doesn't work at all, not even as a metaphor. It takes so much work to pin the story down in fixed form on paper. Putting the paper into the fire releases the story from the paper, not me from the story; it jumps straight back into my head.
I tried putting the paper into the compost pile, thinking of compost as a sloooooooow burn; every time the story tried to jump back into my brain, I would tell it, "No, you live in the compost pile now. I can see you there." But eventually that paper decomposed, and the story moved back into my brain.
I'm going to try and tell some of those old stories here. That might pin them down away from my brain. I'll let you know how it goes.
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Date: 2022-08-03 07:39 am (UTC)I agree with you, the universe doesn't have my back -- but it is so amazing that the Earth just happened to create intelligent life, it really seems like it does!