I like to think of myself as a storyteller, and in those rare moments of irrational confidence, I think I’m a pretty good one at that. I love to tell.
There are stories in my life that started as deep wounds. Moments of rejection or loss, embarrassment, pain or fear that, when they happened in real time, weren’t ready to be told because they were too close. They could become secrets or stories.
I find that by telling my stories, by bringing them to light, I gain power over them. They no longer hurt me, no longer reject or embarrass me, no longer act like kudzu around my life. By speaking stories, I beat them. I can choose to make them comical, make them sane or meaningful rather than the very gritty and uncut aspects of totality that experiences are. I cease to relive my stories and I start to witness them.
And so I tell these stories. Because they are mine, because they are part of me, because they are not me.
(I wrote about stories five years ago; here is a bit on memory and story, another bit on storytelling as oral history. I like to talk about stories.)
