When the Stories We Tell Ourselves Are True
In her book of essays, poet Mary Oliver wrote, “…you must not, ever, give anyone else the responsibility for your life.”
It’s a lesson I learned the hard way, after breaking free of a very long, unhappy marriage. I learned it once more, as if to make sure I understood, when my Plan B failed to materialize into the kind of life I desired — and the only solution I could come up with was leaving, again.
My best friend told me, gently, and with regret, “I’m sorry to say that our problems generally follow us wherever we go.”
But I had to believe this wasn’t true. I had to believe I’d shed a lot of those problems in divorcing a man who did not love me, and in moving away from an environment in which good health was a constant struggle.
As I shared my desire to leave my temporary Montana home, another acquaintance echoed this prevailing sentiment, saying “Thinking that you’ll be happier anywhere else is just a story you’re telling yourself.”
He followed this pronouncement with advice to focus on the present, not the past — when I wanted desperately to focus on my future, a future that did not seem possible after five years of trying in my small, mountain town.
These two thoughts were lodged in my mind like hidden burrs as I chose to tell myself a…
