the lies we tell ourselves

Several months ago, I was sitting in rooms filled with social workers. I decided to attend the Veterans Administration Mental Health Summit, where I had a booth for my grief recovery work. I also had the opportunity to sit in on the presentations. One speaker was talking about suicide prevention. A psychiatrist gave another presentation within the VA who talked about EMDR and other “evidence-based” treatments. The most moving presentations were by veterans themselves who had attempted suicide. Sitting at a table with at least six others (all social workers), I was the only one moved to tears. One woman was on her phone during one veteran’s heart-wrenching account of his story. I don’t know what was pressing at the moment that she thought was more important; however, it spoke volumes to me – no disrespect to social workers. My observation was that, without being a veteran with a similar experience, they resort to what they know and their personal experience.

I still remember the defeated feeling I felt when I left. I remember feeling as though the only way I could help veterans, the way they deserved (within the VA healthcare system and at no cost to them) was to go to college and become a licensed social worker. But, I thought to myself: “I already have this fantastic program available to me that is ‘evidence-based;’ why does it feel like I’m climbing Mt. Everest?” To me, I just needed the right person to hear me out. But that wasn’t happening. Even when I thought I had finally made some progress in a conversation, I only received more discouragement.

Working my way into the VA system, which would allow me to serve the veteran community (while still having a business), has been met with hope and heaps more resistance. Most, who I’ve spoken with, have been open to hearing what I have to say, wish they could help, but then smacked me with the reality that the VA system just doesn’t play nicely with “unlicensed” folk (in not those exact words).

Well, had I listened to all the naysayers, those who said it likely couldn’t be done, I would’ve quit when yet another door was closed in front of me.  I wouldn’t be writing this post right now. I would have stopped when given the tenth or fifteenth “good luck.”

What I think we (more often than not) do to ourselves, and what all of those who I spoke with don’t know or realize, is they were placing their limitations on me. And, for a time, I allowed it. I was feeling defeated. I was wondering if this bigger picture vision I’d been holding for myself this entire past year was going to fade into the background of my life. And, not only crush my spirit but become yet another “thing,” I tried.

Fast-forward to a week ago, after over a month of hoop-jumping, I received my “approved” status to work as a contractor for the federal government (i.e., that would include the VA). I don’t know the impact this will have on my business (or my life), but I feel like it’s a massive leap of hope forward. And I do feel like it’s another step in fulfilling a higher purpose in my life. This accomplishment feels enormous to me; in ways, I don’t yet know myself. I have no doubt, I will have more hoops to jump through; however, this hurdle was a big one.

We lie to ourselves – all the damn time. We believe the crap-stories we tell ourselves. We get stuck around the axel of “I can’t(s)” and “It’s going to be painful” and “life sucks” or whatever other garbage we hold onto like a storage tank.

My mentor Lois said it best: “Would you rather be a processing plant or a storage tank?”

It starts with the lies we tell ourselves. That, it’s more comfortable being a storage tank. That, the pain is far more comfortable (and more familiar) than what it takes to get on the other side.

The inspiration for the title of this blog post comes from a quote I read in a book I just started reading. And I believe it to be true.

The greatest sources of our suffering are the lies we tell ourselves. – Elvin Semrad

What lies are you telling yourself that you believe these days? What are you taking in as truth from someone else? Because it may feel right to them, but that doesn’t mean it is going to be right for you. Here is where compassion enters the room.

We see the world through the lens of our own experience. Grief recovery has taught me that, although trauma changes us through and through, it doesn’t have to be the only story we are capable of believing. To me, there’s always hope. Grief recovery gave me that, not just in addressing my trauma, but in every facet of my life, as I’ve shared with you today. 

Become the story you want to believe.

Do you want to see more hope in the world?

Start by embodying it.

much love, victoria

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