My Story & Me

This piece was originally written for my dear Facebook friends, many of whom have really known me for my entire life. I am beyond grateful for that community and I hope they know it.

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I spent the last three years dancing with my life story like I’ve always done, but at some point things got a little out of hand. I used to swirl my tragedies around like they were as light as air. I’d dip my half-told tales down and whip them back up with a pop of sarcasm and a wink. My story and I, we’d do a little jig. We’d gather oohs and ahhs while I passed around only the digestible juices from the fruits of my life. I’d climb on stage and crack jokes like my losses were nothing, I’d dress agony up like a clown, and I would make sure that I kept my story right next to me the whole time; in line, on track, and perfectly in sync with the routine I’d mastered. I ran a tight ship.

We’d do this dance night after night and I’d relish in the cheers and accolades. I am not sure when it started, but at some point (maybe in the forests of Finland, maybe in my surrenders on the Altadena mountainside, or maybe in the grocery stores and mundane tasks of early adulthood) my story began to secretly collect an audacity of its own.

I’d occasionally lose focus and for a split second, my story would flicker. Its feet would shift the wrong way, its hands would jazz on the wrong beat, a sly smile would creep over its face at the wrong time. Sometimes it would step out of line and do a twirl right then and there, in front of everyone! I would yank it back into routine and we’d keep on going. As this went on, my skin prickled and a subtle quiver spread through my knees but I kept on dancing— eyes shifting to their corners, hands clamming, heart racing. The show must go on.

I kept yanking my story around and shooting it hard looks as it slunk back into place. But like a cantankerous teen, my story had already devoted itself to this epic rebellion. It began to rear its head in places I’d rather it stay hidden. Laughter bubbled out of its mouth as I struggled to shove it back into place. “What are you doing?!” I’d hiss as it marched off beat and sung off tune. Eventually I found myself with my hands on its shoulders, shaking it as it belly laughed and tore away from my grip. Panic would flood me as it ripped its costume to shreds for all to see. It flung the precious pieces like dollar bills, I scrambled to collect them. As it opened its arms wide to the audience, I’d sprint and throw myself at it. I’d tackle it to the ground and we’d wrestle. I slipped in sweat as I tried to wrangle it back into the pristine boxes I’d made for it. I would gather it, pin it down, and sit on it like an over-stuffed suitcase. Nothing worked.

No matter what I did, my story would find a way to crawl out from under me in all the wrong contexts. It would embarrass me, pull tears from my eyes, and make me stutter. It sifted through stacks of secrets and spread them out for display. It was humiliating. I’d glance at the audience with a clenched smile and a tight laugh. I’d tell a joke but my story would grab it before it could fly. I started stumbling and mumbling, my wits fizzled, my voice quivered and I couldn’t make it funny anymore. Still, I kept trying to carefully set up my towering punchlines. I’d balance them on wondrously thin edges, and before I could revel in their steadfastness, my story would come in and shove them over with the might of a monster. Everything I did would fall flat and the audience would turn to crickets. They’d blink, I’d cringe.

I went on and on like this, exhausting myself trying to wrangle my story back into the beautiful production I’d built for it. It was a disaster. I was covered in dust, sweat, bruises, tears, and muck. I lost track of time as the music droned on. Finally, I couldn’t hold myself up anymore. The weariness took over and I stumbled backwards, tripped, and sat sprawled and defeated as I watched my story make an ass of itself in front of the audience. It threw open its arms, spun in circles, and roared with laughter. It danced, it whirled around, it did its silly little thing. For weeks I scowled at it. It tore apart everything I’d ever built for myself. All of the monumental images I’d worked so hard on, the sparkling script I’d studied for years, all of the zingers I’d written for the show… all of them fell apart.

I sat and watched this foolish creature stomp, shuffle, and pirouette over the pile of rubble until one day it all coalesced into quite the poignant moment. I was sitting there, in the mess of it, and up through the winding cavities and criss-crossed Lincoln Logs of my chest, a laugh managed to creep its way to my lips. I used every muscle I could to remain pursed and rigid against this unwelcome guest but I couldn’t help it, this shit was hilarious. Despite myself, I spit out the laugh.

A few more low laughs spilled out after that but I covered my mouth, rolled my eyes, and hid my smile. I glared back at my story, “There’s no way I’m gonna let this fool win me over,” I thought. This went on for some time until one day I laughed a little too loud and my story heard me. It turned to look at me. The world froze around us, the music stilled, and the seconds between us spread out over a thousand miles. I held its gaze, it held mine. The moment swelled in my throat and before I could shout… my story stuck out its hand. My eyes widened, my eyebrows rose. I’d never thought of that. I couldn’t help myself. I stood up, squared my shoulders, and moved with fervor. I walked straight towards that raging, ridiculous, out-of-control beast, and I took its hand.

So that is how I stand before you now— ravaged, raw, bruised, and bleary-eyed by the seething battles I’ve had with my story. The playbook has been scrapped. The set is a mess. My knees are still wobbling and my voice still quivers. But at least we’re standing side by side now. Holding hands, hearts buzzing, slack-jawed and squinting under the bright lights of whatever the fuck comes next.