Storytelling connects us to the world around us, to the forests and mountains and critters in our city parks

I believe in storytelling to understand others and ourselves. Storytelling connects us to the world around us, to the forests and mountains and critters in our city parks. Storytelling is deeply human. If you’ve ever been around a toddler, you know we start expressing our hopes, desires, wishes, and beliefs at a young age. We live in a time saturated with stories. Social media has made it so you can “stream” your day. We’re taught that stories have clear beginnings, middles, and ends, cohesive narrative arcs. While we have greater access to stories and the ability to share our stories than ever before, certain stories, ones with neat packaging and clear beginnings, middles, and ends, are privileged over messier, more non-linear ones. 

I teach storytelling. Twice a week, my college students come to my class and unload all sorts of stories. They learn to write research papers, personal reflections, and open letters. I see the power of storytelling; the narrative peaks and valleys. The power of stories to make us think, I’ve experienced something like that, maybe I’m not alone!

I’ve experienced something like that, maybe I’m not alone!

I’ve studied narrative therapy, a technique that aims to externalize survivors’ pain and uses stories to re-map lived experiences. It can be a deeply enriching practice. I have seen remarkable examples of folks with CPTSD embracing their voices, creativity, and personhood. 

I believe so strongly in storytelling. And yet, when I try to write my own stories the way we’re taught, with clear beginnings, middles, and ends, I feel like a hypocrite. I write “around” my own stories. I have no clear narrative peaks and valleys in my life stories. Every time I try to pin threads into a cohesive line, I end up with spirals. Loops and swirls. Threads in every direction. Traumatic memories are often fragmented, jagged, and defy neat organization along a narrative arc. 

There’s never just one storyline. Traumatic memories come in bursts; in images and flashes and feelings, sensations, and somatic jolts. Traumatic memories can have a more powerful impact. They’re more visceral. They have more color, texture, and smell. A memory can haunt us without needing a beginning, middle, and end. How can you place memories, our life stories, on one timeline? On one narrative thread? 

Trauma does a wonderful job of rendering societal constructs, like neat story arcs, meaningless

When you’ve never talked about something before, or, rather, you tried for years as a very little kid to tell, desperately, but were shut down, when you’ve been trained not to talk, when your identity formed around keeping secrets, it’s hard to get the words out. Because what are the words? Trauma does a wonderful job of rendering societal constructs, like neat story arcs, meaningless. 

My therapist once meant to say “non-linear” about a series of thoughts, but said “extra-linear” instead. Extra-linear makes sense to me, though. Telling your story if you’re a survivor of repeated harms means weaving threads that can’t be reconciled. The threads stick out at odd angles. The threads will almost certainly be of different shades and textures. There might be missed stitches and dropped ones. Your narrative might be a little raggedy. You might get halfway through and realize you need to start over. I do that often. 

We’re told sharing your story can be healing. And it can be! But it isn’t always safe to share your story. Knowing who is a trusted audience is important, and can be challenging for trauma survivors. If your safety wasn’t always ensured growing up, or at any time, it can be hard to trust your instincts. I remember feeling so ashamed, realizing that. But it’s not shameful. No one’s safety, especially some of our most vulnerable populations – children, should ever be compromised. Learning safety takes compassionate work and time. There’s certainly nothing linear about learning to trust others and yourself. Our brains get used to patterns. There’s no one way to change our thoughts and behavioral patterns. If there were one answer, one story, one mantra to repeat to heal relational trauma, the mental health and wellness industries wouldn’t be worth billions of dollars. 

I have a bachelor’s degree and a master’s degree in storytelling. I teach storytelling, and I’m studying therapy (the art of storylistening), and yet, when it comes to constructing a narrative about my experiences, I falter. And I don’t say that to admonish myself, very much the opposite. Linear stories are often boring. Human experiences, beyond trauma, can’t be neatly categorized. Telling your stories, when it feels safe, can be meaningful and fulfilling. Don’t feel constrained by narratives or the supposed limits of story arcs; go for the extra-linear. It’s in telling our stories and questioning our core beliefs that we can imagine new possibilities, how things might be different. It’s not easy work. It’s certainly not linear. And I can’t give you a concrete timeline. Re-imagining our lives is probably the work of a lifetime. I know for me, telling my story and re-telling it counters the traumas I have experienced. It gives me agency and hope. And I hope you find those too; however, best fit your needs and interests! 

Photo by Nong on Unsplash

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Betsy Roy

Betsy Roy is a writer, educator, and graduate student at Temple University studying Clinical Social Work. She received her MFA in Creative Writing from Rutgers-Camden University, where she teaches Composition 101 and 102. She is passionate about the power of storytelling to heal and community-centered, trauma-informed approaches to mental health care. She has lived experience with CPTSD and knows firsthand the positive benefits of survivor-centered, holistic care.