In my book We Are All Innocent by Reason
of Insanity I describe how we tell a Story that defines our lives. What
I mean by insanity is ‘confusing our mind-generated reality with actual
reality.’ Our personal narratives are an example of that confusion. We begin to
tell stories about ourselves as small children. Our families and teachers tell
us stories about ourselves. We spin these stories into a personal narrative. By
the time we reach adulthood we have forgotten that this narrative is just a story
and believe it is the truth of who we are.
One of the suggestions I make in We Are All Innocent is to ‘question the Story.’
Last fall I was camping with a friend and in the evening we
had a long, lovely conversation by lamplight. She told me of a book she had
read that started with a description of a man’s life. He was an engineer and
totally uninterested in matters of the heart. He had no close friends, no wife
or children. Then one day at 40 an illness struck and he found himself in the
hospital, close to death. He spent days in his hospital bed “rewriting the
story of his life.”
I stopped my friend there—“What an incredible image,” I
said. “Rewriting the story of your life. What a powerful concept.”
My friend went on with the story: the man survived and
completely changed his priorities. I don’t remember much else about it, because
I was filled with wonder at the possibilities inherent in ‘rewriting the
story.’
This thought has stayed with me, and I have looked at how I
have rewritten my personal narrative over the course of my life.
I grew up in a family I compare to the “Leave it to Beaver”
TV show: dad worked, mom took care of the kids, no problems. Part of my childhood
Story was “I am part of a completely normal American family.” Then one day in
1974 this storyline was shattered when my father announced he was leaving. At
that time, in the upper-middle class town we lived in, divorce was still rare. My
narrative told me that being the child of divorced parents meant I was
defective in some way.
This became part of my Story. I was flawed. I was defective.
I was not good enough. My best friends for the rest of my time in high school
were also children of divorce. My husband was a child of divorce. I became
insecure about my abilities and talents and didn’t pursue the professional
career I had always expected was my future.
