The Stories We Tell Ourselves in Order to Live

The story that these shoes tell by the bank of the Danube we should never forget

In my previous post I wrote about colonizing other people’s stories in writing, and the conflict that arises when your story – your ‘truth’ – conflicts with the story and truth of someone close to you. The post inspired many heartfelt conversations and vulnerable shares – all from non-writers, who were suddenly coming out with their own stories they had repressed, or had been forced to repress; stories that continue to haunt their present day lives.  

The following comment tapped into something that I have been mulling over myself:

I cannot help but wonder, are we responsible for the shame that our “supporting” characters feel when we tell our version of the story?

It got me thinking how often writing questions can morph into larger questions about life. The question it pointed to wasn’t just about the stories we writers write, but the stories we tell ourselves, and others. Recalling

Elif Shafak

’s words in this context (“We are made of stories. Each and every one of us”) we can conclude that these stories, or more accurately, our interpretations of the events that happened to us, form the narrative of our lives.

How we interpret these happenings largely depends on our worldview. If our worldview is that people are inherently bad and will look to exploit us, we are more likely to interpret every misfortune and challenge as a proof of that view, and harden ourselves for another fight.

When I was a teenager, I remember my mother warning me about being “too open and trusting.” Her fear for me was that my honesty, and the vulnerable information that I provided strangers with, could be used against me. She wasn’t entirely wrong. I have a tendency to assume the best of people, and can overlook some crucial red flags as a sign of warning. And on occasion, I did get hurt. But not nearly as many times as I have managed to forge meaningful conversations and connections, thanks to the same vulnerability and honesty.

If, on the other hand, our worldview is that people are complex – capable of the worst atrocities, but also of the greatest acts of generosity – we are more likely to take some time to grieve these misfortunes, but once the crying and the self-pitying is done, we will inevitably ask ourselves, “and now what?” This is when we will face another dilemma: Is there anything that we can do to change an adverse situation, or all we can really do is to surrender to it? The answer is not always straight forward, but the following Serenity Prayer by Reinhold Niebuhr might be helpful:

Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference.

But to arrive at this point, it takes candid self-inquiry, willingness to take responsibility for our own actions, and self-compassion. Whenever I feel myself stuck, or lost, I turn to the wisdom in my heart and body. I bow my head towards my chest, place my hands on my heart and ask myself the following questions:

1)    How am I feeling? Am I feeling fearful and resentful, or empowered and abundant? Where do I feel these feelings in my body?

2)    What am I seeing? Is my worldview dominated by things that make me feel concerned, or things that make me feel grateful and hopeful?

3)    How am I acting? Am I acting from fear, or trust? Ego or Spirit?

4)    What am I thinking? Do I have more fear based concerns, or more “what if” inspirations?

5)    Who am I surrounding myself with: people who support my path, or undermine it?

This tends to help me in moving from a feeling of helplessness and confusion, to a state of acceptance and empowerment. While I reject my own culture’s tendency for melancholia and glorifying suffering, I find forced optimism just as harmful. Choosing hope over desperation doesn’t mean turning away, or denying the truth about the pain. Quite the opposite. The first step in moving forward, for me at least, is to acknowledge, honour and mourn a loss. Moving forward doesn’t mean sweeping uncomfortable truths (stories) under the carpet, hoping that they will disappear from our consciousness. They never do. As the following quote from the Gospel of Thomas warns us:

If you bring forth what is inside you – what you bring forth will save you. If you don’t bring forth what is inside you, what you don’t bring forth will destroy you.

Or, in the words of the great writer Joan Didion:

We tell ourselves stories in order to live.

Have you ever wondered why there are so many memoirs written about the most painful experiences; so many stories about abuse, trauma and neglect? And why are we drawn, and find so much inspiration, and comfort, in such stories? Do you think that the people writing theses stories were driven by pride and a corrupt need to make profit from a “cheap story,” or more likely they were driven by their all-consuming shame that was gradually eating them from the inside – until they had found the enormous amount of courage to bring their story forth, and thus release themselves from the story’s shackles and shame?

Of course, you don’t need to write your story, telling it honestly is already a big step. And “there is no easy way to tell a difficult story,” as my friend rightly remarked.

There are too many examples to list here, but I will circle back to my own story, and my reply to my friend’s comment:

I’ve been asking myself the same question. The short answer is, I’ll take responsibility for my own actions, but no shame over anybody else’s actions. That is for them to own.

As a writer, I am aware of the weight that words carry. What I put on the page cannot be random, nor careless. I never seek to harm, or get even. When I write, I write because I have to; because there is a deep need within me to bring something forth that would otherwise threaten my inner peace; a question I need to investigate in writing, before I can answer it. This is true not only when I write non-fiction, but just as true when I write a fictional story. I have never once been plagued by the question, “Hmm. What shall I write about?” The questions/ stories find me and dictate my course of action. And luckily for me, and all of us, life is full of perplexing questions and mysteries.

I tell my story because there comes a point in your life when to feel whole, you need to stand confidently behind your story and say, “This is who I am, and this is my story.” My ancestors’ pain (or shame) about their stories is for them to carry, and deal with. It is unfair of them to expect me to carry it for them, the way they see fit. I can’t. My hope is that they too, will find a way to bring forth their own story and release themselves from the shame, before it “destroys” them (metaphorically, or physically). And I will always sit and listen, with the intention to understand. But this is their journey, not mine. They write their own story, and I will keep writing mine, the only way that I know how: with honesty and vulnerability.