Stories Save Me

No answer to this, but sharing a little realisation/question about myself that I am wrestling with right now. I wrote this in my journal on the 2nd May 2020:

There is so much unnecessary guilt. So much productivity bullshit drowning my own voice. But also the push and pull of procrastination. Do I even know what I’m procrastinating about?

I’ve internalised the messages about art not being valuable. I don’t think I really realised how much. Even though I’m the product and the proof of impact, of saving lives and building futures – beneath it all I’ve still been carrying around this idea that it’s not enough. That it’s not worthy enough, or worth as much. That I’m not doing as much as a doctor or a social worker or a teacher or a start-up for the homeless. As though I’m somehow just faffing about having a good time and letting everyone down. Why am I carrying that shit around? I would never let that fly if colleagues and collaborators and mentees undercut themselves in that way.

Stories saved me. Stories save me.

So why do I keep telling myself the story that what I give has to be bigger and better than stories? What kind of bullshit is that lurking in my skin?

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