Destructive Self-Narratives You Believe to be True: But Are They Really?
When in doubt, ask your best friend
Middle school has got to be THE WORST TIME IN LIFE to feel rejected.
“Few things limit us more profoundly than our own beliefs about what we deserve, and few things liberate us more powerfully than daring to broaden our locus of possibility and self-permission for happiness. The stories we tell ourselves about what we are worthy or unworthy of — from the small luxuries of naps and watermelon to the grandest luxury of a passionate creative calling or a large and possible love — are the stories that shape our lives.” from The Marginalian by Maria Popova (I carelessly neglected to write down who said this - but it hits the nail-on-the-head nonetheless.)
We’ve all got some deep, life-altering, mind-fuckable stories we take to bed with us every night — and wake up with just the same — and one of my many came not from my childhood, but from my just-enough-awkward middle school years when my teacher told me I wasn’t “gifted enough” to enter into a program aptly called “gifted and talented”—only the A+ kids we’re offered entry.
Now if that’s not a kick in the Cavaricci pants…
This, of course, turned into a story I told myself for years that has affected the trajectory of my life in an unknowingly profound way. (Speaking as a grown adult now, I know these types of narratives are all MOSTLY fabricated perceptions created through a very teeny-tiny lens from a very small segment of our underused brains. Seriously, I’m NOT a brain scientist but I’m thinking maybe 1 square cm of my brain processed this info and was like, oh yea, this goes in the “for eternity it will haunt me” database.)
Which it most certainly has, and the lifelong effect of it I will never truly know (but I do have these recurring dreams that I NEVER make it to the test on time for Biology because I can never find the classroom). All I can say is that until recently I’ve lived under the assumption that my gifts were meh.
But… we know there is always more than one version to a story, and when you open yourself up to the idea that while yes, this story has burrowed so deep into my psyche that I’ve managed to self-fulfill its validity, and even have proof due to me heading squarely into certain life events thinking welp, good luck, giftless — it offers a glimmer of hope. Hope that the other version will crack you wide open, and have you think, dammit I’ve wasted years believing that story and it turns out, it wasn’t real. I’ve been only skimming the surface of life when in fact there’s so much mining to do because there are amazing gifts within I haven’t tried uncovering — I just have to dig for them, experiment and stop telling myself I’m giftless.
All of this came to light not that long ago after I admitted to my bestie that I’d been carrying this story around with me since those terribly bad Aquanet hair days. Thankfully she shared something with me that has set me free like only a bestie can. She took that destructive narrative of mine and she shattered the shit out of it.
Two versions of one story:
My version:
I can’t believe I’m not allowed to take a class about Photography because my school thinks I have no talent or gifts and I’m stupid.
My best friend’s version — who was “gifted and talented” and enjoyed the evergreen effects of being in such a high-caliber class:
That class was a total shitcan made-up class that sucked rhino balls and had nothing to do with being gifted or talented. You’re lucky because it didn’t eat into your free period!
Nothing like an alternate version of an old narrative to snap you right out of your woe is me story.
And there you have it… pay attention my friend to the false and destructive narratives you’ve been holding on to like some favorite blankey even though they make you feel really bad about yourself and they smell like cooked cabbage.
There’s always more than one version. And may that other version set you free!