My Stories
We all have them, our stories. The times in our lives that are meaningful to us because they were special or impactful or funny or traumatic. The memories that create a deep imprint that we can implant ourselves back there almost as if it was yesterday.
Most of us tell ourselves and others the same stories over and over again like a broken record. We all have that family member or friend that tells the same story every time you are together or get on the phone. We all do it at times… We are cyclical beings and we can get stuck in a particular cycle or story.
MY stories- the ones that lived on repeat for most of my life- aren’t something I’ve felt very comfortable sharing. There are a handful of people who know MY stories before my college years. I can’t tell you the number of times that people whom have only known me in my adult life have been shocked when they find out I have a sibling because I don’t talk about my childhood. But these stories, MY stories, were ones I told myself over and over and over again to help me understand myself: my peculiar tendencies, my anxiety, my depression, all the things that felt off. I found blame in MY stories for all the things deemed ‘wrong’ with me and in that never let the feeling nor energy of that moment leave me. I lived in these traumatic, negative experiences- in this stagnant water- so often that I lost sight of all the joy that was sprinkled in between and the freedom that existed in the present.
For most of my life I’ve lived in fear- absolutely terrified of the world around me- waiting for the next threat to identify themselves. It’s said that you attract what you believe. I believed that there was always a threat. That someone was always going to turn on me or hurt me. That people really didn’t like me. That I didn’t belong. That I was worthless. That I was unintelligent. That I was not attractive nor lovable. And in that, I continued to attract those very things I feared. These stories- the core memories that I had within my cognitive access for most of my live- shaped all the future things to come because of what I allowed myself to believe. While I called myself a survivor, I continued to play the victim. I continued to blame others behaviors and actions on how I presented in my current life and in that it took me decades to find the real story behind it all. The real driver of the beliefs that continued to create more stories. It was through diving deep into the shadows and healing these stories that I realized that there was more buried underneath. It was in facing my part- my soul planning, the law of attraction, etc.- that I was able to move past the cycle of these stories and really begin to heal.
It’s in the details for me. It always has been, that’s where you find the magic. Where the matrix glitches and timelines shift. It’s where you make your moves. It’s where the dimensions and worlds collide. Where you can find the beauty through the darkness. It’s in the details.
For as long as I can remember I’ve been fascinated with other people. I love to people watch- pick up on everything someone is saying except with their words- and make up wildly fascinating stories about their lives. I had an obsession with Harriet the Spy and Mary Kate & Ashley spy movies when I was a child. My friend and I begged our moms to get us black composition notebooks just like Harriet. We would take them while we were walking around downtown after school or while out running errands with our parents spying on everyone. We wrote down every observation, we suspected everyone of everything.
My imagination, my creativity, my magick, my light was the only thing that kept me going for a long time. I lived in that world because my reality was to hard to bear. If I allowed it, the darkness would consume me. I lost connection to myself, I disassociated from life. I felt very alone. At some point along the way the light got harder and harder to find. The more stories accumulated, the more darkness seemed to consume me. Then one day the light went out completely. I didn’t want to be in my body- it didn’t feel safe nor lovable nor like it belonged to me. I just wanted to take the pain away. I would daydream about driving off this cliff I passed each day on my way home from work, laying down in the ocean and letting it take me away, slitting my wrist in the shower with my razor, and many other daydreams that seemed to consume me.
Lately I’ve felt like a black rose. Beautiful and intriguing, but fucking deadly and not so popular. A bit more hidden than the other varieties of roses. So hidden, hidden, hidden…. So much so that no memory recall of the hidden events- the hidden trauma- existed. One of the core wounds- the memories were hidden so deep that they could only resurface after I had been able to heal MY Stories. Only to be revealed once I remembered my calling, my purpose, my rival. Only once I had been reconnected to HER. The memories were hidden there so I could only find them after I had dug deep and healed- faced the darkest shadows and found myself back in the light- as then and only then would the daydreams not become reality.
Our bodies are truly smart and if you stop to listen they know how to protect you, heal you, nourish you, move you. You just have to STOP and listen. STOP and listen.
Write your stories, write down what you tell yourself is the reason you are the way you are. Keep writing and digging and exploring. Keep asking WHY over and over again until you get to the root of the belief, the root of yourself and then explore it some more. What did you come here to do? What is your souls mission? How do these stories come into play into that mission? What lessons did you learn? What did they make you believe about yourself? And why???
