Tell Me a Story

The Pain & Healing of Storytelling

Do you have that one event filed in the cabinet of your brain, labeled “The Worst Thing That Ever Happened to Me”?

I do.

Ever take it out and let someone peruse that folder?

I don’t.

I keep sifting through my files and reorganizing, shoving one folder to the back and bringing others forward. These first few may be okay to open, in a story anyway, but that one in the back—no way.

That one’s too much. That one hurts.

And if you start filing other people’s stories in that cabinet, you pack a heavy drawer of pain that’s best kept shut.

As a teacher and a mother, I have always loved storytelling. The seeds planted way back when my mom read to me from an old fairy tale book printed in 1950 and kept on a shelf in the hall linen closet, right on top of hastily folded sheets, next to one other pale pink canvas-covered medical book I enjoyed flipping through as well. No library of classic books shelved in my house back then.

I Do Shelve Classics Today

I still display that Fairy Tale book in my home, so happy I held onto it after my parents passed.  I noticed this vintage collector’s item is about $95 to buy it used today. My old copy is tattered and falling apart, and I rarely let anyone touch it as it sits behind glass, the cover exhibiting the perfect rendition of my childhood—a fairy and a sprite sitting atop a fatty toadstool telling stories to three eager-eyed children, little elves peeking around the smaller mushrooms in the wood. Rumpelstiltskin’s conniving ways captured my attention and likely engendered my eventual career choice.

When fairy tales become real stories about life or the past, the art of storytelling takes a turn. Is it still fun? Or do you let the pain seal up the books hidden behind glass where nobody can touch them?

I have started with the files near the front of my cabinet to open and post for readers. That one I shoved to the back? It’s been opened but not on display just yet. I am walking a tentative path, hoping to draw others to walk along with me first. People have indeed listened, but as I said before, some have also begun sharing their own stories with me. It’s a nice community. Kindred spirits.

As art imitates life, I may wander away from pure nonfiction occasionally and try my hand at fictionalizing some of these stories I hear, to protect the innocent and all.

My own folder shoved way to the back stays filed for now in a book I’d like to publish. Those who walk with me may find themselves in my other short stories here along the way. And if or when you do, you will discover that storytelling is healing for all of us.

You find yourself reading for pleasure again. Reading for therapy. Reading for strength and resilience.

Do you want to?

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