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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 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 more hopeful story:
You will find a beautiful and affordable house in a safe neighborhood. You will join writers’ groups and hiking clubs where you’ll find other people with similar interests, and you will not feel so alone. Dozens of accessible trails in a variety of habitats will allow you to maintain a healthy outdoor lifestyle without risking broken bones on icy streets. In a larger metropolitan area, you’re unlikely to ever feel bored or lonely at all — but in the case of unexpected cabin fever, you can drive to another vibrant city full of artists, craftspeople, and fascinatingly diverse cultures, only an hour away. And at the very least, you ‘ll be eating truly authentic northern New Mexican food: posole, green chili, blue corn enchiladas, and the occasional Margarita, made with agave wine, not tequila.
