The Stories We Tell Ourselves
“Don’t worry Ms. Thompson I am going to admit you to the hospital and we are going to figure this out. Hang on and don’t worry.” A man with clear blue eyes, a bonnet, and ceil blue scrubs said to me, with a hint of fear in his voice, as I lay in a hospital bed staring up at bright fluorescent lights at ~12:37 am on April 20th, 2021.
In the darkness of our minds, we tell stories. Stories that we aren’t good enough. Stories that shame our body image. Stories that we are an imposter in our careers. Stories that we are unworthy. If you are lucky enough to escape these stories, count your blessings. But I would venture to say that telling stories is inherent to the human condition. Our darker stories have our own unique flavor of self-sabotage — or self-preservation, depending on how you look at it. Stories are how we interpret the world around us through our experiences as we came bursting out of the womb; crawling on our hands and knees; exploring the world through taste, sound, touch, sight, smell; fighting hormonal teenage years; engaging in the responsibilities of adult life.
Earlier this year, I almost died at 26-years-old. I would have died believing a story that was not true. A story I told myself to avoid letting others in, to avoid getting hurt. A story that I only had a few people who cherished, loved, or cared about me. An outsider looking in on my life would have thought I was out of my mind to believe such a story. Yet, it is a story I held nonetheless. This is often the case with these stories about ourselves. An outsider could identify the errors and untruths, but we go on believing the stories anyway.
I sank back into the delirium and haze of my 106° spiking fever on the crisp, clean hospital bed. A bed that was now full of sweat and tears. I had a rash that made me look like a leopard with red and pink spots. I felt like a foreigner in my own body, and my skin no longer looked like my skin. The joint pain during fever episodes left me unable to walk. I was diagnosed as septic in the ER and treated with a shotgun approach of antibiotics, anti-inflammatories, and steroids. Many doctors and med students would join my medical team as I was a mysterious puzzle to figure out. The days turned into weeks which turned into an 18-day hospital stay. My husband, family, and friends grew anxious as the days progressed. I would get a little better only to relapse again. There were no solid answers and abnormal labs. My doctors would later tell me that my bloodwork “defied medical science”. I would not get diagnosed with Adult-Onset Still’s Disease, a rare disease, until the third week. But that’s not what this story is about.
As my stay grew longer, the flowers began to arrive in my hospital room #479. First from my husband (who never abandoned my side) and then from family, co-workers, and friends. Flowers upon flowers came to my room. There were roses dyed a deep blue with sparkly silver fern leaves to accent. Rainbow bouquets of daisies and baby breath. White lilies for healing and yellow roses for cheer. My hospital room became enchanted like a downtown floral shop. The array of colors lifted my spirits to keep fighting. The nurses said they could smell the flowers in my room from down the hall. Every time a new nurse would come on shift, they would comment on how I must be one loved lady because they had never seen so many flowers in one room. I honestly felt a bit like a celebrity. But that isn’t all this story is about either.
During one of the spiking fever episodes, I had a near-death experience where I felt myself leaving my body and getting ready to exit this world. I hovered in spirit gazing down at my body in an oversized hospital gown surrounded by gorgeous flowers from all the people who cherished me. I felt as though I had a choice on whether I stayed in this life. At that moment, I committed to stay and live in acceptance of my true self. During the days that followed, even though I was still in the hospital, I felt more love than I had ever felt before. This love felt comforting and safe, like a warm fuzzy blanket wrapped around your shoulders. Even though I was still sick and in the hospital, I had this joy that filled my body with an unfamiliar warmth.
When I broke free from the hospital on May 7th, my palms were sweaty and my heart was tight. I was overwhelmed by this new, serious disease with unknown progression. At the same time, I was empowered by the love that I had received. I felt as though I could take on the world with this love. This love filled me up and lit my way like a torch. There were notes from people that expressed how cherished I was and the flowers filled an entire metal cart when I was discharged. I would have told you before this hospital stay that I didn’t feel like I had many close friends, people who loved me, or people whose lives I had touched. It’s a pain and wound I have carried for a long-time. Yet, here I was — surrounded by fresh flowers that told me otherwise. How could this be? How could I have this story in my head that felt so true but was untrue?
Nothing in my external world had changed, but everything felt different. I was different, and I felt illuminated. I wondered how I could have ever thought that I did not have many friends and family who loved me. But stories that took decades to create hold strong. As the summer wore on and reality set in, I fell back into old patterns and stories. The stories and thoughts in my head returned with a vengeance. Why? How could this happen? I sobbed on the floor of my bedroom not understanding why I felt so closed off from others, yet I was so clearly loved. But I had made a commitment on my deathbed, and so I set out to uncover how it was possible to have such a misleading story in my head.
I reflected on why we tell ourselves these stories in our minds, stories that are not true. The answer I found was one of the most painful conclusions lurking below the surface. The truth was… I wasn’t able to feel fully loved by others because I didn’t truly love myself. It didn’t matter that I had done years of counseling, meditation, or dozens of self-love exercises. There was still a deep wound and lack of unconditional love for myself. I would have died on those white sheets feeling as though no one loved me, even though that was the furthest thing from the truth.
That was the reflection under the stories I told myself about other people not liking me. I had hidden away pieces of me out of shame due to experiences that led me to believe those pieces were unacceptable. I didn’t accept myself or the true essence of who I am. I held onto this untrue story as a way to protect myself from more pain, seal myself off, and not let others in. Those stories in my mind were my ego protecting itself from the truth. I am not unique in this pattern of storytelling. What we think others think of us is often a projection of what we think about ourselves.
These stories we tell ourselves are illusions. Maybe it’s to make our lives more interesting, or perhaps a cruel punishment from a higher power. These destructive stories and thoughts can be addictive. We are often unaware that they even exist. However, the part of me that believed the story of being unloved died in that stale hospital room. I cannot unsee the light from the love that I felt. I now am consciously unwinding that old story and replacing it with the true story — I am lovable, and life loves me.
The person I was when I entered the hospital is not the same person who left, but not in the obvious physicality of having a rare disease. I am forever changed by my journey and glimpse of death. I am now more afraid of not fully living and loving than I am of dying. I am releasing that ruinous story in my mind that was deceiving me. I am celebrating this newfound love for myself and the ability to receive love from others.
But that story’s roots ran deep. I would be lying to you if I said that everything magically became perfect following my near-death experience, but human evolution is anything but linear. If allowed, the leftover roots would grow new plants, stories. I’m taking the time to dig up any lingering roots and consciously planting new stories. Stories that grew from all those flowers people sent me. Stories of love. Only when I love myself can I feel loved by others. With this new understanding, a whole new horizon has opened up to me. Although, I will probably be learning how to practice self-love for the rest of my life.
When that ER doctor looked down on me, I didn’t know that a part of me was going to die. But I am grateful all the same. What stories are you telling yourself that aren’t true? What stories keep you from living your full expression? What stories are ready to die?
The next time you feel alone or unloved or undeserving, ask yourself… is this story true? You don’t have to be like me. You don’t need to face a literal near-death for you to realize that you are loved and cherished. Do not leave Earth feeling unloved. Do not hold yourself separate from humanity due to past pain, trauma, and suffering. Do not let an untrue story guide your life. The stories in our head are just that… stories. They are not us. They are not who we are. We are not the stories we tell ourselves.
