Changing the stories you tell can be good therapy

Great tales begin with it. Countless times did my mother speak the familiar words as she read folk and fairy tales to me at bedtime:

"Once upon a time ..."

And so we tell our stories. But they are not just stories read out of a children's book. Human beings tell stories about everything. We never merely have an experience. We are compelled to tell a story about the experience.

It matters what stories we tell, because the way we tell our story shapes the way we integrate our experienc. Our stories provide the stage for how we embrace our future. For better or for worse.

Consider a mom and a dad complaining about their teenage son's behavior. I might ask them what best describes their son. Should his face be on a wanted poster? Or on a March of Dimes poster? Two different stories, each calling for a different response. Is the boy more like a criminal? Or more like a child with a handicapping condition?

Alcoholics Anonymous works by retelling an alcoholic's story. Most drunks tell a story something like "I'm a bad, stupid person who drinks too much." AA tells a new story: "You're an alcoholic, which is the name of an incurable disease, which you can manage only with the help of a higher power."

Healthy religion tells a story: In the beginning. We were slaves in Egypt. There were shepherds watching their flocks by night. The people in darkness have seen a great light.

Unhealthy religion tells another story: God really likes you, and he's counting on you to oppress, exploit or kill the people he doesn't like.

A woman in love tells a story like this: He's sensitive, empathic and can talk about his emotions. He's so creative. A dreamer. Spontaneous and fun.

But a divorcing woman tells a different story: He lacks ambition. He's weak and unmanly. The exact same man with the exact same attributes. But now a different story.

A man in love tells a story like this: She's a domestic dream. So organized. Runs the house like a Swiss watch.

But a divorcing man tells a different story: She's a controlling so-and-so. The exact same woman with the exact same attributes. But now a different story.

If you haven't already noticed, we tend to tell our stories with an eye for convenience.

One way to think about therapy is to say a skillful therapist helps you tell better stories, stories that leave you more room in which to live whole and well. "I just don't know why I keep doing it," says the guilty husband caught in his third affair. See, he wants to tell a story of an inexplicable, psychological mystery. I offer an alternative story: "Maybe you do it because it's fun and you like it a lot."

Sometimes we need a merciful story. I find it particularly meaningful to help people tell stories of compassion to counter all-too-frequent stories of infamy and self-loathing. Very few people need help feeling bad about themselves.

Sometimes we need a brutal story, such as when the Man With the Terrible Temper says to me: "The way I treat people is horrible! I hate this part of me!" Sounds like a useful story. "Good for you," I say simply.

Sometimes we need one story for a while, and then grow out of the old story and need a new one. For example, when someone first admits to suffering child abuse, he or she usually tells a Tragic Story, a story of tears and helplessness, injustice and indignation. But after a time, that same person might trade the story of tragedy for the Hero Story, a story of endurance, survival and personal transformation. The Hero offers his wounds back to the world as a healing balm and beacon of hope. The Hero absorbs violence, and now teaches beneficence.

And when you find your stories becoming dire and empty, as mine become sometimes, then I make something up. I try something on. Such as ... once upon a time there was this 49-year-old columnist/therapist who had yet to see the most beautiful part of his life. Don't know if I believe that story yet, but at least I'm willing to tell it.

Choose your stories carefully, because your stories can either set you free or pin you like an insect to a board. Your stories can promote depth or condemn you to the netherworld of self-delusion. Leave room in your stories to be surprised. Beware convenience. Be suspicious of stories that render you categorically innocent, because we are all noninnocents.

The best stories, of course, are the ones that are true.

Steven Kalas is a behavioral health consultant and counselor at Clear View Counseling and Wellness Center in Las Vegas. His columns appear on Tuesdays and Sundays. Questions for the Asking Human Matters column or comments can be e-mailed to skalas@reviewjournal.com.