0 Cart
Added to Cart
    You have items in your cart
    You have 1 item in your cart
    Total
    Check Out Continue Shopping
    ONWORDS: ON STORY ADDICTION

    ONWORDS: ON STORY ADDICTION

    My name is Todd and I’m an addict.

    (Hi Todd)

    I’m not addicted to drugs, alcohol, sex, gambling, shopping or any of the other addiction types listed here. I’m an addict of a different kind. I’m addicted to my story. (Wait. Please understand that I’m not making fun of addiction. I feel the need to state that right up here in the front. At the top. Everything seems to offend someone. Not my intention.)

    I recently spent a weekend in Sedona with a group of brave souls who traveled to the Vortex in what we thought was a writing retreat. My expectation was that we would write. And write. And maybe write some more. I thought we’d write dialogue, description and character outlines. We wrote a little, but mostly . . . we exposed our addictions to our personal stories (some were recovering addicts and inspiring as all get out).

    I won’t betray the incredibly personal stories others shared, but I can share mine (which is a far cry from incredible and is in fact really quite boring). Mine goes something like this: I struggle with depression on some level of the spectrum. I struggle to consistently live in the authentic direction of my soul. I’ve always sought permission before making any major moves in my life. I watch other people do the kinds of things that I want to do and struggle with the jealousy it brings. I’m afraid of my gifts. I blame. I wear a variety of masks in an effort to…well, you get the picture. I’ve crafted a tale that gives me the excuses I need. Anytime. Just reach into my Official Bag of Fooling Myself, sprinkle a little Sabotage Dust on (enter situation here) and cue the darkness. Being addicted to my story meant I could avoid taking any real control of my life.

    But what I realized this weekend is that’s not how it has to be.

    This is where it’s natural for me to think, “Duh, dumbass,” and start berating the f*ck out of myself. That’s easy to do. But then, that’s just part of the story, isn’t it? That’s what I’ve always done. That’s the addiction. That’s where I go eat some horribly unhealthy meal, make myself feel like shit, lather, rinse and repeat. All the while my Demons are laughing their asses off. So not this time.

    As we studied the different character/personality archetypes the question was asked, “What if you don’t like your archetype?” Or as it relates specifically to me, what if I don’t want to keep falling into the hands of the Saboteur? The response was swift and simple: Change it.

    Story Addiction takes many forms. It can be the thing that keeps us from getting up early to workout (“I’m just not a morning person”) or not expressing ourselves artistically (“I don’t know how to [insert art form]”) to you name it and there’s likely an excuse attached that is part of the story. I’ve gained and lost the same 30 (40?) pounds more times than I can count. Every time I lose it someone proclaims, “Wow! You’ve lost so much weight!” I tell them, “I haven’t lost it, its just misplaced. I’ll find it again.” I get laughs. It becomes part of my story. And I gain it all back. (And then some) We all have our own versions of Sabotage Dust. Believe me, there’s no judgment in that. See it. Honor it. And if you want to join me . . . change it. (So, when I lose this 30 pounds--again!--and you tell me how good I look, I’m going to say “Thank you,” and tell you how fun it was.)

    So this is me virtually looking out upon the majestic red rocks of Sedona (as I sit on a couch in my family room) changing my story. I’ve entered a kind of Story Addiction Rehab. This isn’t a rebranding, either. I’m not covering up anything. I’m uncovering everything. This is owning and telling the story that is really, truly mine. Authentically.

    And that other story? That’s not real. That’s not me. (Or, more to the point--I have no use for it anymore.) Somewhere along the line I started believing it was. Somewhere along the line (and if I’m super honest I know exactly when “somewhere along the line” actually happened), I discovered it was easier to sprinkle the Sabotage Dust than it was to fight for my soul. I found it was easier to be sarcastic than honest. (Which isn't to say that sarcasm doesn't have it's time and place.) I found it was easier for me to write that things sucked than to admit they were awesome. Somewhere along the line, I started living like I was learning a new language, as though whenever someone said something, I had to translate it through my story and then respond. I wasn’t speaking from fluency of soul. I didn’t trust myself. Because the story I was living told me that I couldn’t. I became my mistakes. I become the fear. I became the hurt I had caused. I became the addiction.

    I know . . . I’ve been here before. I’ve written things like this before. Repeatedly. It’s been written in a variety of ways, including my favorite, “I’m sick and tired of being sick and tired.” And, I usually say to my friend (whom I call the Rabbi) that “I hope this time it sticks.” And he usually responds, “There will be a time when it does. May as well be this one.” I can say, undoubtedly, it is this one.

    There will be haters. There are always haters. Always a couple who will make fun of the words, who will taunt the sentiments. And that’s cool. Everyone has their own stories that are at the root of their responses. I’m good with that. So, if the words start to seem a little different. If the thoughts start to feel a little different. You’ll know why.

    That’s my story. And I’m sticking to it.