My Story

“The tendency of the human mind to see everything connectedly is so strong that in memory it unwittingly fills in any lack of coherence. . .”  (Sigmund Freud, 1856—1939)

“It’s cloud illusions, I recall . . .”  (Joni Mitchell, 1943--) 

I have an internal narrative, a story I tell myself, about myself.  My story is built upon memories.  However, over a lifetime I recall only bits and pieces.  I forget much.  I remember best the unusual out-of-the-ordinary occurrences.  I occasionally recall seemingly random and otherwise trivial memories. I often forget the everyday occurrences of my growing-up. 

There is bias in my recall. The memorabilia, the photos and the papers I hold on to, that I use to reminisce, have been kept and stored over the years because they are flattering or they bring to mind select special moments.

I remember best that which is most compatible with my self-narrative.  I likely filter and discard those memories that might refute my self-perception.

And, the story I tell myself, about myself, is different from a story about me as it would be told by my wife, or children, or friends. Whose story would be closer to the Truth, if there even is such a thing?

From the Oracle at Delphi we’re told, “know thyself.”  From Socrates we’re told that the unexamined life is not worth living.  If true, I must examine my self-narrative with a critical eye, asking a series of important questions.  First, how consistent is my self-narrative and how accurate am I with my facts?  Where might my recollections be distorted?  What has been over-emphasized, made bigger than it was at the time?  What of importance has been glossed over? To what degree have I over-emphasized the unusual and neglected the day-to-day?  I must not only examine the contents of my narrative, but I must ask what have I omitted from the story.  What have I ignored? What have I forgotten? Why have I forgotten?

I need to examine closely my explanatory biases.  How do I explain what I do and why I do it?  To what do I attribute causality?  To nature?  To nurture?  To chance and circumstance?  To my free-will and the choices I have made?

For those of you who, like me, have a self-narrative, we do so because we are wired to do so.  We look at the night sky, see patterns in the stars and invent the constellations.  We look at the clouds and imagine them to be identifiable pictures.  In the same way, we look at the scattered fragments and memories of our lives and turn them into a comprehensible whole.  My internal narrative creates order in my life.  It’s an attempt to explain who I am and why I am.  My narrative fills in gaps where memory may be elusive.  My narrative attempts to construct a good story about a decent man, who tried to make a difference.

In its written form, a memoir, I hope my story will be remembered when I am no longer, if not as an autobiography, then as a work of historical fiction.