This post is about a boulder.
I am a story-teller. I’m grateful that I have a voice and a place to tell my stories. In fact, I’ve always had willing eyes and ears, as I’m kind of… prolific… and animated.
I have a knack, I’m told. I’ve taken advantage of that… all for the good, I hope.
I’m reading a book that I’m almost ready to tell you about. My mother recommended it… and it’s a doozie!
I’d like to talk about one aspect of the book because I think it deserves its own post. I’m certain you’ll agree.
Let me begin by saying I have been in the space of “victim” most of my life. I do not blame myself for the ways in which I became a victim. I had a rough life in many ways, often at the hands of others… and sometimes, at my own hand.
That said, while many of my stories are wonderful, optimistic and funny… (if I don’t say so myself – ahem!) many, many of my stories have reflected my victimization. It’s been a thread that began shortly after my birth and has woven throughout my life.
I have clung to my victim stories, partly because they explain why I’m the way I am.
I’m depressed because…
Enter story of abuse or molestation or a hurt so deep I can hardly function, let alone breathe.
I am anxious because…
Enter story of fear so all-encompassing that it keeps me from doing what is necessary.
I am angry because…
Enter story of mistreatment and being unable to stop the unrelenting pounding.
I am resentful because…
Enter story of profound, shame-filled and guilt-inducing losses.
Story after story after story. All true. All painful.
As a writer, my story-telling comes naturally. I see details and big pictures and everything in between. As an HSP, I am incredibly sensitive to the nuances of daily life. As a navel-gazer going way back, I am most sensitive to nuances in my life. And if I’ve missed anything, I think nothing of ruminating over it.
And so, I’ve written. Pages and pages in journals and notebooks and message boards and emails and blog after blog after blog. I’ve been anonymous and I’ve been out there as much as you can be.
In fact, I am here, on this blog, as me, in all my glory.
In short, I have been carrying this heavy boulder on my back. Etched on it are my stories.
Please don’t get me wrong. Stories are important. However, for me, so many point to my being victimized. And that is no longer who I am or who I want to be.
Even in writing as I did above (the “Enter story of…” bits) I have fallen back. It’s SO EASY to do! It’s been my story for SOOOOOOO long!
Remember, this is not to say that life-altering, icky, horrible, hurtful things don’t happen. They do. To everyone. But the stories we tell… that we carry… that we live with… are the one’s that can lift us up or bring us down.
I no longer wish to carry those victim stories. And by that I mean: on my back.
Of course, these things happened. Of course, they are a part of my history.
But I don’t have to lug them on my back.
I’m letting that boulder go.
I’ll be writing about how I’m doing it and the book that inspired me (in its entirety) later this week. Stay tuned for that!