The Stories We Tell

1. I will never belong (in my family). I will always be shut out and rejected.

I’ve been listening to Tara Brach (god I love her) and thinking about the stories we tell and the importance of saying them out loud.

A few weeks ago I used the L word (loser) and a beautiful wave of friends broke on my shore in all the ways that speak of love as well as an excellent telling off by MH which, were it not private, I would share in a heartbeat because it was so brilliantly eloquent and strict and also full of love and I’m not having that plus Pull Yourself Together. And correct. I am not and she was right. Everyone needs at least one crack on to yourself friend and I have a handful (yes, AW I’m looking at you, too).

But the point I want to make is this: when a person is able to name a thing that’s buried deep in the shame closet, the thing loses its power. Up until that moment I’d never in my adult life used that word against me; I’ve plenty of other violences to set upon myself and that particular one was not a well used weapon but you can bet on all the home cooking in the history of humanity that somewhere in my childhood I had thought it, and felt it, and believed it to be absolutely true. Having caught it by the throat in the moment it resurfaced fifty years later, shone a light on it and said its name out loud it has withered in my hand and turned to dust.

So here’s another story I tell.

1. I will never belong (in my family). I will always be shut out and rejected.

Don’t panic. I know it’s a story. As Tara Brach says, real, but not true and what’s interesting is how I’ve transcribed it onto my career. When I illustrate the story I see a child jumping at high, locked gates and when I enter sensation I feel a desperate, clawing, strangulating need. I hear tears and on turning up the volume, please, please, please let me in. Let’s pull focus. There, the high walls, there the impenetrable castle with the figure minuscule against it. There the impossibility of belonging and the expressionless face of stone walls that say they do not care.

How I arrived at this story is for another time, I can say with confidence that it was never the fault of my siblings. What matters, if I want to change it, is how its unspoken veracity has made itself real in my adult life. I used to wear it with a fuck-you pride but that doesn’t serve either because it’s a reaction to a corrupt premise. Engaging with stories strengthens their existence. Ask any writer. So instead I’m engaging the Tara Brach method of naming it. I have a story that I will never belong. There. I’ve said it. I’ve caught it by the neck, held it up to the light and said its name out loud. Let’s watch it turn to dust in my hands.

Eleanor

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