A friend of mine once said: „Life is made up of events and our interpretation of them.“ That is what we commonly refer to as „experience“. I choose to believe that is so. That means two things:
- How we remember things is not necessarily how it happened
- What happens will have a different effect on me than it will on you, simply because we interpret sth. in a very different way.
We literally „see“ things differently, and not by choice. It is our physiology. Whenever we say: „let’s look at this objectively“, that is asking to do the impossible. We as humans have no biological capacity to perceive an outside, neutral reality, if it exists. I’m not saying there is no such thing, merely that we are not able to perceive it.
Have you ever noticed the difference in the English language between „history“ and „story“? My guess is that you would answer very differently if someone asked you for your „history“ rather than to tell your „story“.
We are the result of the stories we tell. To ourselves. Sometimes we hold on to these stories so much that we think they are history. Fact. Reality.
I recently had the opportunity to revisit what I thought to be my „history“ and see once again that that was just a story I was telling myself.
The story I was telling myself for a long time about my six years in a boarding school was that I was an Italian-born halfbreed, with fairly left-wing views whose mother worked for the Green Party and was not exactly affluent; and I was cast into the shark-pond that was a very conservative, very German, all boys-boarding school with kids that mostly came from old or new money.
In that story, I was sometimes the outcast, sometimes the rebel. I guess I just wanted to belong somewhere and at times even adopted really nasty behaviour in order to fit in to some peer group.
All this time, almost everyone else was part of the „in-crowd“. They came from money or were conservative or just too cool to be true, blablablablablabla.
A week ago I reconnected with a classmate. I had not met him in 15 years. Over breakfast we exchanged our views of that time. In my story, he had always been part of „the others“. The cool gang. Part of the „problem“. My „problem“.
And then something strange and beautiful happened. we talked and talked and he shared with me his story on our common „history“. It turns out that he also felt really disconnected and under constant pressure to fit in, and at some point he chose to fit in by excelling in school and toughening up, even to the point of being arrogant to others.
There was true regret in his face. Not only that, he told of many others from our class that did not ever want to talk about school times again; who had carried away real scars from that time. It turns out we all struggled with the same fear of disconnection, the same desire to fit in, to be liked, to belong; we simply had different ways of getting there, different survival strategies.
That is when two feelings came over me: that of: „I thought it was only me“ and that of „I am not that story anymore“. And that was possible because of a change in my view of „reality“, of my story, brought about by this conversation.
This went a long way to show me how much we sometimes hold on to our stories and how liberating it can be if we decide to revisit them with an open heart.
If there are any stories in your past you’d like to revisit and are looking for someone to serve you with attention and presence, drop me a line at giovanni.jaerisch@web.de
What I am grateful for:
- the beautiful conversation P. and I had, which led to this article
- Anne, who challenges me in her unique, strong, beautiful way to make decisions
- a lifestyle that allows me to travel and see my friends in different parts of the world
- my ability to cry. It’s such a cleansing experience ❤
Here and now 