The Scariest Stories We Tell Ourselves: Healing from Negative Self-Talk
The campfire is such a nostalgic place: the warmth, the community, the s’mores... In my family, we would capitalize on any opportunity to tell scary stories, and the dim, crackling glow of a fire was the perfect backdrop to terrifying tales. As Halloween nears, I am reminded of these moments in my childhood when fiction would run into reality, leaving my big imagination to quake at the thought of running to the bathroom in the middle of the night. I was convinced, entirely, that I would be swept away by some nefarious villain. It was only the relief of the sun glaring its way into my room that alleviated these fears and let me roam in peace. The stories we tell around the fire may end when the sun comes up, but the ones we tell ourselves can linger far longer.
As kids, our fears took shape in shadows and monsters. As adults, they take shape in our own self-talk. Sometimes we’ve lived so long believing this talk that it seems like the only true thing. It might be hard to pick out the fact from the fiction. I see this show up a lot in the therapy room. A person walks in carrying their own spooky campfire tale, but they can’t see the hope of dawn yet. This might look like someone telling themselves they are unlikeable, unworthy, unlovable, or a whole host of other stories that keep us locked in a nightmarish cycle. Of course, the pain these stories evoke is very real and often comes from years of deep hurt. From the outside, it can be easier to identify these for exactly what they are: scary tales that don’t reflect much reality about who you are.
One of the scariest things about these stories is that they might have at one time served a purpose, and letting them go can feel like willingly walking in the dark. If I convince myself, for example, that no one likes me no matter how hard I try to be a good friend, it might feel relieving to stop trying—because if I stop trying, I can’t get hurt. It’s a wonderful defense mechanism, and uniquely adaptive, but ultimately, it makes our world really small. Working with a trusted therapist can help uncover these stories for the fabrications that they are. However, I recognize that that is not accessible to everyone. There are ways you can begin identifying these thoughts on your own.
Follow the feeling, whatever your story may sound like.
Following the feeling is like shining your flashlight at the edge of the woods—what do you notice hiding there? Notice how your body responds when you think a certain way, e.g., “If I go to the grocery store, people will stare at me because I look weird.” Does your chest get tight when you think about this? Does your heart start beating faster? Sweaty palms? Those sensations were the same ones little me felt sitting around the fire, listening to my mom give her best impression of a brain-eating zombie. I was convinced it was inevitable that I would be the next victim in the story. And this is exactly what our brains are trying to prevent when we think about going to the store. We want to avoid danger—and danger can look a lot like ridicule and isolation. So, identify the fear: “When I think about going to the store, my chest gets tight, and I am afraid people will reject me somehow.”
Ask why this seems scary.
What about rejection makes you want to avoid the store? This is not straightforward, and it may take a while for you to get to the bottom of it. A good starting point is to ask yourself what it means about you if the thing you’re afraid of comes true. In this case, what if all the people at the store did think you were weird—what kind of person would that make you?
Look for evidence.
What can you tell yourself to offer a counterexample? Can you make it a practice to notice all the ways you appreciate when people look different or stand out? Does their boldness inspire you? Or can you relate to how absolutely and delightfully common your style is? Maybe you start noticing when someone wears the same style of shoe as you, and before you know it, you’ve counted 15 pairs in one outing, and it hardly seems weird at all.
These are all easier said than done, and it takes a lot of time and corrective experiences to balance out the history we’ve lived through. After a particularly harrowing rendition of the brain-eating zombie routine, my older brother locked us in the bathroom and called the police on my mom to report that “my mom turned into a zombie and is gonna eat our bwains.” Yes, the cops showed up, and they didn’t think it was as funny as my mom did. But there was nothing that was going to convince my brother to open that door until he was sure we were safe—and that safety was an apologetic and laughing mother who assured us that our “bwains” were secure inside our heads... and maybe the promise of a treat if we came outside. We all need our own version of safety and personal encounters with healing. Therapy, in many ways, is sitting inside that bathroom door together, waiting until it feels safe enough to check what’s real.
As a therapist, I can help orchestrate these encounters with you, but there is always going to come a point where you will have to take a deep breath and turn the knob to see if there really is a zombie. It is one of the highest honors for me when I see the people I work with ready to do this, and I will show up ready to meet you in the shadowy unknowns that those scary stories leave. In the meantime, as you work through some of these things, I highly recommend journaling. Journal about each of those questions I asked above, and detail what goes well, what goes wrong, and how you would handle it differently the next time. Practice sitting with yourself in the discomfort and offering compassion for trying. Scary stories belong to Halloween; the ones we tell about ourselves deserve kinder endings.
