One of the most thought-provoking-and jarring-aspects of learning to be a therapist was that I had to figure out who I was without all my old stories to identify me. Think about it: we reveal ourselves in conversation with strangers by slowly unpacking our stories. We use these stories to create the facade we show to others. We tell stories of who we are in the world (“I am so-and-so’s daughter”) or what we do (“I am a therapist”) or about the habits or hobbies that define us (“I am SO into chocolate”).
Imagine then, that you suddenly must be present with others without using stories to identify yourself? Stories have always been important to me-I was an English major in college, I love words, and I tend to see life as a narrative fraught with metaphor. I love my stories. My stories are my history. Who would I be without the stories of growing up in south Georgia, of the time I met the Argentinean soccer team, of all the pranks I have played, of the time I forced my sister to eat a “nature taco”(that’s a snail wrapped in a leaf)? My family thrives on stories: at every birthday, we tell the same stories of a person’s life. Over the years, those rituals have come to mean everything to me.
But therapists reveal little to their clients, in the way of personal disclosure. When I was a new therapist, I felt as though my entire identity had been completely stripped away from me. The instructions to therapists felt confusing to me: you are supposed to model authenticity, and congruity. You are supposed to be a real person. But don’t reveal ANYTHING about yourself.
Then the question became: who am I without my stories? It became a larger question for me. Who am I in the present moment, without all these layers I have chosen for myself? How can I be present with someone else, without referencing my stories about my past, or my accomplishments, or other people?
The interesting aspect of looking at it this way is that I have been challenged to use the wisdom, or the insight or the humor without the stories. In many ways, stripping away the stories actually forces me to use the products of my experiences and make them my own, to truly assimilate them rather than just rehearse the same version of them, and to stay fixed in the same place forever.
Think about it: how would your life change if you didn’t feel caught in the same stories about yourself and those around you? How would your primary relationships change if you saw everyone anew, as they are right now? What sense of freedom would you feel? And what kind of fear?