The Stories We Carry

Lately I've been contemplating the many, many ways that we hold and carry our stories.

For me, it would include the dozens of journals we keep stored in the basement.

The dear old friends (who are more like family) who have journeyed thousands of miles of road with us already.

The siblings who are the only people who ever shared the idiosyncratic homes of our childhood.

The photo albums that fill our book shelves with images of each major milestone preserved behind a plastic cover.

The land and landscape around us that can at times feel more like our own DNA than our own tribe.

The books, movies and songs that we re-read, re-watch and re-listen to 2, 3, or 200 times because it feels almost magical that someone else has captured the essence of our story within their own art. 

Our very own physical bodies that carry the C-section scars across the belly. The dull pain in the right hip every time it rains.  The scar on the right knee from the bike accident in childhood.  The 3rd earring hole only on the left ear because fainting occurred before the other could be pierced.

Yes, these are all ways we carry our stories.

And I could very well write a post about each and every one as their individual value to me is that great- that meaningful.

But just for today, I'd like to consider the therapeutic relationship as a holder or container of our narratives, our histories.

As a psychotherapist by day, I actually don't generally write here, in this blog, about the topic of therapy.

There are probably a lot of reasons for that; one being, psychotherapy is my Monday through Friday day job (that I love), and in the ether of the virtual world I like to explore other interests of mine.

And even today, it is actually not my plan to share with you my reflections as a therapist, but rather in my experience as a patient or client.

Because you see, in the spring of this year I learned that my longtime therapist had died.

I wasn't working with her at the time, yet the loss and grief I felt was there just the same.

Of course the death of someone you care about always has its usual challenges, but I've found having my therapist die has been a different kind of experience.

I'll tell you why.

For those of you who have ever worked with a therapist for a longer period of time you may understand this better when I say, that after learning my therapist died, it was a very strange feeling to know that the keeper, the holder, of my story was not here anymore- here on earth.

As someone I had worked with on and off for over ten years from the period of time right after I got married until my mother's cancer just a year and change ago, this woman had the largest breath of my intimate history next to my husband and 2 childhood friends.

But unlike my husband and two friends, and I only realized this after she died, my therapist and I had the both explicit and implicit agreement that she would help me hold my whole story- the good, the bad, and the ugly.

Because, you see, sometimes the dark parts of our story are just too heavy to carry on our own. 

In fact, sometimes, I think it was the sheer weight of the new event (or the old event that I was finally ready to contend with) that would bring me back to her office again and again.

It would be like when my husband and I have a big household chore to do that feels too big for one of us alone, so he will say to me: Let's double-team this one. 

Except, our story is not something concrete that can be held in hand, but rather something ethereal that is more likely to be held in the heart and mind in the company of another.

And I really don't think I'm alone with this need.

I recently went to a wedding, and at one point late into the night I decided to take a break from the crowd and the dance floor to take a breath.

And as I sat there, just a few steps away, I had this sensation of awe for all of the hard-won stories that were being carried around out there on that dance floor.

For example, a woman in her twenties who had just lost her father in a plane crash.

A couple who had lost the baby girl they planned to adopt after 2 years of being her parents everyday.

A man, not yet 40, with a beloved father of only 67 with rapidly advancing early-onset Alzheimer's.

The adult child who's mother took her own life when she was just a baby, leaving her without ever having had the experience of having her very own mother.

All of these complex stories weaving in and out on the dance floor- carried inside each human body.

Watching them made me realize, though I didn't fully appreciate it at the time, my therapist acted as a carrier for me of my own story, my own history. 

I began to imagine her as one of those huge barges I had seen out in the middle of the sea. 

Flat ships, not really moving anywhere, jam packed with large wooden crates filled with all of my historical cargo. With all the appearance like, they (the barges) seemed just as content to stay out there indefinitely.  No where to go. Nothing to do. Just saying, "yeah, I got this."

Through all those years of pregnancies, jobs, losses, and just life, I didn't fully appreciate what a gift it had been for her to help me carry the historical weight for so many years (whether I was actively working with her or not) so that I could continue putting one foot in front of the other in the next set of life experiences.

Having had this experience, I now find that I have a much greater appreciation for the sacred (I know that is a big word) quality that is present when someone leans into vulnerability in order to share a part of their story, and when someone agrees to respectfully listen to, hold and honor someone's story.

This new appreciation reminded me of a quote I once heard.

"Listening is an act of love."

I heard this said in an interview with the creator of the radio/podcast show StoryCorps, David Isay, which is essentially an entire program dedicated to the loving and respectful holding and preservation of our American Stories- literally holding them in The Library of Congress.

An act of love.

Even though as a therapist myself I had already bought into the power of deep listening, still, since I've reflected on the significance of the therapeutic relationship with my own therapist after learning of her death, I now believe, know, this truth at a much deeper level.

And that has changed me.

Just yesterday I was in a long conversation with the new student intern I'm working with at the hospital, and she began to tell me a little bit more about her own story- what brought her to our shared field of mental health and psychotherapy. 

And as her  story unfolded, I felt a much deeper appreciation come forward--almost as a sort of meta-awareness--as she opened up to me.  And I have to tell you, it felt generous and authentic. 

It felt like mindfulness.

I want to thank my therapist, Joan, for all of the stories she helped me carry, and even now, for continuing to participate in my own personal transformation.

Blessed be.