Back in my twenties, I spent a lot of time writing in my journal, usually about boys. Then I had an epiphany. I realized that the quality of my relationships with men were inversely related to the amount of time I spent writing in my journal. If the relationship was healthy, I was off happily living my life, not sitting on my window seat, writing about how happy I was. But if the relationship was dysfunctional, I wrote . . . and wrote . . . and wrote. And when I look back now at those journals, I have to laugh at myself because every whining, complaining story I told had me as the heroine of my “Poor me” story. The guy was always a liar/cheater/loser/wimp/alcoholic/abuser/narcissist/jerk. They were all WRONG WRONG WRONG. But me, I was always right.
Do you hear the ring of “victim story” here? Bingo. That would be me in my twenties. A hot mess who blamed everyone else for the messes she was creating.
Now I don’t write in a journal anymore. I blog instead. But I notice the internal journal I write to myself sometimes. And even after all these years, sometimes the story flips into “Poor me,” and that’s always my signal to shine a light on my victim story, because every time (I mean EVERY time, with no exceptions), I can be guaranteed to find some juicy morsel of soul growth buried, often unconsciously, in the muck of my victim story.