We Tell Ourselves Stories in Order to Live

I was raised in a house that believed in the end times. By age 3, I was convinced Jesus would return before my fourth birthday and I wouldn’t get my golden-haired Barbie and the chocolate cake with tufts of buttercream. /I bargained with God./ Give us time, please just a little longer in these bones. ~ Joy Sullivan

If I cut myself out of the web, I would leave a gaping hole that would hurt all those around me. ~ Stephanie Foo

We tell ourselves stories in order to live. ~ Joan Didion

I have been thinking a lot about death lately. The ways in which we pretend it is not real, the ways in which we long for it. The ways we create fantastical stories (like the Rapture) to skirt around death. We will be swept up into the sky magically and bypass the very human experience of it. Joan Didion said we tell ourselves stories in order to live. Because we do, we long to live. No matter our circumstances.

When I came across the writing of the poet Joy Sullivan it was like a coming home. Here was someone who also grew up in an evangelical home (her parents were ‘missionaries’ in Africa), and she writes of “shedding God” in a relatable way. Here is someone who has felt the same shame that I have, and who has worked hard to find her own voice.

I, too, was raised in a house that believed in the end times. For the first five years of my life. A household that placed little importance on earthly things. I do remember being very attached to this little, pink plastic doll’s stroller, that I had parked under the stairs. There were the prayer meetings late into the night. The casting out of demons. Not being able to celebrate Christmas. Though I don’t have many clear memories, my body remembers. I was steeped in shame and urgency. I know this, because I still feel it today. There are times when my whole body bends inwards, and I’m not sure if I can bend it outwards again.

Skip ahead 15 years, at age 20, I was sitting in a room filled with my peers and we were stuck in there for up to 4-6 hours. We were required to confess our “sins” in front of a room full of people, and repent and “cough out” our demons. It was a public shaming. And this one I remember. I have clear memories, as well as the intense feeling of shame in my body. Shoulders hunched inward, heavy, numb, dull. A feeling of failure that I could not do it right. That I would never be right. And even so, I would find myself saying, please, just a little longer in these bones. Just a little more time. I have so much to accomplish, I have so much life to live.

Little Leah was filled with excitement, mom said it was going to be Christmas today. She didn’t know what Christmas was, but it felt exciting. She sat at the kitchen table, with her baby brother, and spread before them was big, spicy slabs of gingerbread, little bowls filled with icing, spatulas, an array of candies, crushed candy canes, smarties, ju jubes. Little Leah had never seen such a sight. They pieced the gingerbread house together, high on sugar and love. Mother (a child herself), chuckling with glee. Everyone was smiling and giggling. Then there was a knock at the door. Mom’s whole body stiffened and a look of fear shadowed her face. She quickly threw a tea towel over the gingerbread house and told Little Leah and baby David to be quiet. It was an elder at the door. We weren’t allowed to celebrate Christmas.

Mother says, Christmas is good,

but we need to hide our festivities.

We will construct a lavish, sugary gingerbread house,

and hang tinsel from the ceiling, giggling nervously with glee,

but if there is a knock at the door, hide everything.

We are not allowed.