Truth-Telling Myself
“Tell me a story / Where we all change / And we’d live our lives together / And not estranged” — From No Regrets by Robbie Williams
It is important to me to have a truth. Without truth, I flounder into depression. It does not have to be the truth, I think that is too much to ask for, but a truth is a hard requirement. So I peek under every stone in my mind. I investigate. I analyze. I question myself good-cop-bad-cop style. I employ the non-focus technique of looking away for a bit to see what might sneak in. I am relentless in my pursuit, like a squirrel on steroids gathering nuts for a long winter.
With every new morsel, I try to detect a pattern, draw a conclusion, piece together a narrative. I hone it. I listen. I judge. I give it a test run on people close to me, see how it fits. Over time it becomes more elaborate. Enhanced, if you will. I get better at telling it. I get better at believing it.
And then there is a point in time when the balance tips to the other side. The story begins to tell me. I believe it so much that it takes over and I cannot imagine any other truth. When the narrative is positive, upbeat, empowered, it does not matter as much. Though I am a die-hard skeptic I can handle the traction. But when it, as now, is a dark, stuck, depressing story it becomes overwhelming, and it seems impossible to tear myself away. I know it is not healthy, but the data has spoken. I did the analysis and I am rarely wrong. I can even get other people to back me up. Very few people tell me I am not wearing anything once I have presented them with my facts. My truth is so true it becomes absolute.
Except it is not. I know my study methods are not up to scientific snuff. I know I have chosen only to include the outliers that skew my way. I know. I know that if I can only get my mouth a little bit above the storyline I can take a fresh breath. I can pull the curtains aside and open the window. Let in some air. Let in new facts that are also true. Dilute the tight tale. Loosen it up. Not so much it falls apart. I am not betraying myself. I am not calling myself out. But enough to distract me out of the fetal position. Enough to get out of bed. Enough to get out of head.
That is where I am right this minute. Wiggling in my cocoon to get enough room to tweak the narrative. Take enough grains of salt to break the bind of the story. Because that is all it is; it is a truth, not the truth.
Regitze Ladekarl has re-emerged as a raconteur after a long, successful career elsewhere. She crafts universal tales from everyday lives with an honest, sharp and witty pen. Besides working on a forthcoming novel, she flexes her voice with personal essays, flash fiction, and method writing here on Medium.
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