Telling a new story
By Ruth Field
Ever since I can remember, I was obsessed with stories. Reading them, writing them, telling them and then retelling them, more often than not, heavily embellished. When I was at the Criminal Bar, I often had to create a story based on tiny shreds of evidence; sometimes just one point from which to weave a narrative powerful enough to convince a jury. Often, these stories had less to do with the truth of the matter than with how tightly defendants clung to them. Barristers too. And this is something we all do, don’t we? Tell ourselves stories to help us figure out why stuff happened and how, forever trying to fit the mysterious puzzle of our lives into something neat and visible, something we can hold onto, something that makes sense.
It’s our earliest experiences that propagate the kernel of our own narratives, formed at a time when we are just starting to understand who we are and how the world works and not yet equipped to see the fuller picture. Unhelpful formative beliefs - once necessary to make sense of our environments and relationships as children - can become self-fulfilling prophecies as adults. If we hold the belief, I’m not clever, the thread running through our stories might be that our own stupidity is the problem, resulting in us living smaller lives to protect ourselves from feeling stupid. Like pieces of circumstantial evidence in a criminal trial - flimsy threads on their own - once woven together make rope that’s incredibly strong and difficult to unravel. It is in this same way that our own narratives gather momentum and power, preventing us from moving forward or changing direction; can keep us in relationships we’ve outgrown or stuck on the merry-go-round of self-blame and despondency.
But what if there was a way of unravelling these narratives and revealing another story, a truer one that those beliefs and a lifetime of reinforcement had kept hidden? What if there was a place you could go to where the care and attention was so intended and complete, where you were given the time and space and therapeutic expertise to rescript another story, a different narrative, one born from a new perspective freed from the constraints of what’s been limiting you. Wouldn’t that be something? At The Heartbreak Hotel, you’ll hold up a mirror that sees past all your stories and reveals who you really are. And we think that’s pretty radical.
Try this:
Imagine the child you were, really picture her, what she looked like, how she behaved, what you liked about her, what made her sad; what made her smile? Now write a letter to your childhood self and tell them everything you feel about them - the more details (dates, anecdotes, colours, smells - engaging all your senses) the richer and more therapeutic the exercise will be. Express your unconditional affection, compassion and pride for your childhood self. They are still within you, honour them, care for them and keep them close.