3.2 Lies we hold onto
There are lies we hold onto, even comfort ourselves with - narratives we’re unwilling to let go of because, backward as it seems, our negative inner story answers a question about what we fear most.
I had a Teddy Bear named Edward. My aunt gave him to me in 1981. He was totally flat since I slept with him or on him every single night. And then I stayed at a hotel in Minnesota for a conference in 2018, and I lost him. Do the math; that’s a lot of years of companionship suddenly gone.
When, after calls and frantic searching in case I’d left him somewhere in the house, I finally had to accept that he was truly gone, I sat on the end of my bed; Brandon sat down at my side, and I cried and I cried and I cried. Brandon knew better than to say “It was just a stuffed animal.” or “You’re disturbingly old to care so much about a toy.” He just let me cry until I was all done.
Then I started putting words together about how I really felt. He wasn’t my pillow or my favorite toy; he was the only thing that, for as long as I could remember, had unconditionally loved me.
As the words left my mouth, I realized there was a reason he was gone. Although I knew of course that Edward didn’t actually love me, I believed that if anyone did, it was my bear. Because no one else did. I was unlovable.
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