Now, that isn't a commentary on how important I am. And it certainly isn't a statement about how much I love and care about others or whether I empathize with them. It's just an acknowledgement that our focus is mostly on ourselves. The reason is simple. We live with ourselves 24 hours a day. Sure, we interact with others, but we're in charge of us. That's not a part-time job.
I believe most of us are in our own world, thinking about ourselves most of the time. In and of itself, that's neither good nor bad. It just is. But it has the effect of allowing things that really aren't about us to become ALL about us.
I know that whenever someone close to me is going through a trying time, feeling down or stressed about something, I start thinking there must be something I can do to fix it or make it better. I even start to think I'm the reason they're upset. I think maybe they're angry with me. I feel responsible for their angst and go through my day as if it's my duty to make everything all right. I do this even though I know logically that they aren't upset with me and their problem has nothing to do with me.
Case in point. My husband was going through a stressful time recently. He needed to make a rather big business decision. Now, my husband is a very outgoing, easy-going, even tempered, fun loving guy. A true type B personality. When he's faced with major stress, he tends to get quiet and withdraw into himself. It's his way of thinking things through.
But I made it about ME. Sure enough, I start thinking I needed to "fix it," to make it all better. I felt responsible. I imagined that he was upset with me and was giving me the silent treatment for something I did. I made his silence mean something. Don't we all do that to some degree?
In short, I made up a "story." We all make up stories. We take the things that happen to us and around us and we spin a tale about what they mean. What they mean is what we tell ourselves they mean. Our stories are woven out of our subjective personal experience. Forget facts and objectivity.
I know a man who had a friend in his neighborhood die at the age of eight. From that point on, he considered the number eight unlucky. That's a story.
Suppose someone doesn't return your phone call. You start concocting reasons in your head why that is. They might be out of town. Their message machine might be broken. They might be really busy ... or annoyed ... or uninterested ... or forgetful ... or mad at you about something. Those are all stories. The only fact is they haven't returned your call. The rest is all interpretation.
Maybe you've had a rough day, week, or life and you swear that the universe is singling you out for persecution. That's a story too.
