The Story of Their Blood in My Veins

I have a root of evil inside me. 

It doesn’t take much research into my family history to see it woven through every generation.  Depression, alcoholism, suicide, domestic abuse — it’s all there.  This blood is in my veins.  This story is my story.  

I read about the tendencies of my personality type, and learn I am rated “Most likely to be depressed”, like it’s some sort of prize.  I am also likely to be idealistic, and must be burdened occasionally by the necessity of functioning in the real world.  I am likely to be overly emotional, to lash out in anger when things don’t go my way, and to base all of my decisions on feelings. When I read about how I long for close human connections, but don’t know how to get over myself long enough to really connect with anyone, I say YES.  That’s me.   [Read more…]

The Story of Not Enough

Some days, I feel like I’m squeezing myself into a world that is already too small — a world full of teachers who teach better and artists who create better and musicians who play better and writers who write better.  As I try to make a place for myself, everyone seems to say “Thank you, but there’s no room for you,” like they would after a job interview that didn’t go so well. In a world already full of talented and successful people, what could I possibly contribute?  [Read more…]

The Story of Someday Maybe

Sometimes I imagine myself packing up everything most important to me in the back seat of my car and leaving.

I’m not sure where I would go, but I would pack up my G.K. Chesterton books and and my journals and my $20 camping tent from Target and some clothes and a few granola bars and drive until I get there, wherever there ends up being.  Maybe I would climb a mountain in Colorado, or stand at the edge of the Grand Canyon, or kayak across the inlet in Seattle.  I always imagine myself going somewhere scenic and exciting, because after all, it would hardly be worth packing up everything to go to Topeka.  It all sounds strangely romantic and liberating until I start thinking through the mundane reality of eating and sleeping and putting gas in my car and actually driving across the country.  [Read more…]

This is just the beginning.

Everyone has a story. 

We start our stories on blank pages, choosing which parts we remember and which parts we forget, choosing whether to make ourselves wise or broken or funny.  We tell stories as a way of reaching out to other people and reminding ourselves that we are not alone in our experiences.  We make friends by telling stories.  [Read more…]