Whatever people say I am

On the narratives that surround us

When I was little I drew a picture of my family that my mum still laughs about. In wobbly crayon, I depicted my mum, dad, little sister and me. My little sister was off to the side and I had drawn myself in the centre. As the tallest. My mother didn’t take this childish narcissism as a red flag, but rather, she thought it was evidence of my ‘strong will.’ My ‘strong will’ has been a narrative in my family for as long as I can remember. Along with my fondness for being alone (apparently I took myself off upstairs alone in the middle of my second birthday having had enough of pals) and my predilection for nice things (read: expensive). The other thing that’s always been said about me, mostly in a jokey way, is that I’m sort of fragile. The smallest family member. The one most likely to get ill. The person who needs bolstering more than others. My sister jokes that I’m weak, need smelling salts, would be the most likely to rely on a fainting couch in a Jane Austen novel (I would genuinely really like a fainting couch).

I am strong willed, I do like to be alone. I am certainly drawn to nice things and I am definitely a bit weak. But I also wonder if the attributes we (lovingly or otherwise) ascribe to people reinforce these characteristics, defining who we are - possibly too much. A chicken and egg situation, as so many things in life are.

Me being famously weedy

Am I a bit weedy because I was told I was? Do I let myself crumble when faced with the slightest problem and rely on other people to help me partly because I’ve been told that’s just how I cope? It feels a cop-out somehow - like I slightly surrender my own agency and point to my inherent ‘weakness’ if confronted about my choices. I lived across the road from my parents for years - partly because I love them but also a little bit because I thought I was probably too fragile to be any further away. What if I’d reframed the narrative surrounding me and begun to tell myself that I was tough and independent? Would I have felt more able to try something which might have scared me? 

It’s my own fault for only seeing myself through mirrors that other people held up. Partly it’s born of insecurity - when I was younger I was far more invested in who others told me I was than in spending any time trying to figure out if those depictions were the whole story. But it’s also easier - easier to go along with the way you’ve been portrayed since childhood - especially if, like me, the way you were portrayed was accompanied with love and kindness. Nothing that anyone in my family ever ascribed to me felt damaging or negative. Even the family joke about me being weedy was always said fondly and affectionately (and I was busy telling my family who they were too). It didn’t make me feel bad. But the label stuck and I didn’t push back against it as an adult. Remember Colin in The Secret Garden? He is constantly told that he is ill and will soon die. As a result he grows up believing he is ill and will soon die. It takes meeting Mary to make him see that he is healthy and can have a future.

The thing is, there is some truth to all the labels loved ones have given me. Course there is, sometimes your nearest and dearest see things within you more clearly than you can see in yourself. But I didn’t need to fall back on these characteristics as unquestioningly as I did for so long. Or use them as an excuse to behave badly. When we were teenagers, a friend once told someone that “Bella doesn’t like most people. If she likes you, she’s an amazing friend. If she doesn’t, she has no time for you.” I have to admit that I somehow decided this summary gave me carte blanche to dismiss people I didn’t immediately like for a long time. 

Equally (perhaps more importantly) this goes for things I’ve told myself too. I decided long ago that I was intolerant to any ‘alternative’ spiritual practises. I told myself that I hated exercise and would never attempt it. I was firm, rigid even, about what and who I felt I was. 

By imagining that I was fully formed and unmalleable (ridiculous!), I didn’t think to explore other elements of my personality. I suspect I shut down opportunities and options that I imagined I wouldn’t like or get something out of. I like nice things so I wouldn’t want to camp out in the wilderness. I have a low tolerance for anything I ignorantly deemed ‘woo woo’, so I wouldn’t try meditation in my twenties (despite every counsellor I’ve ever had tell me it would help my anxiety). 

I’ve been meditating every day for a week now. I wince at the whispered voice telling me to have a full heart, but it has massively helped my worry levels nonetheless. At times, it’s felt quite humbling. It’s also been quite freeing. I’m going to try and carry on loosening the narratives I surround myself with. But I still don’t actually want to camp out in the wilderness.

To watch: Lupin. It’s on Netflix. Run! But it’s vital that you turn off the dubbing and watch with subtitles instead.

To listen: The podcast “Cautionary Tales.” I won’t spoil it - pick any episode - it will fascinate you.

To buy: One of my favourite indie shops is selling divine vintage lingerie - what a green dream this is.

To read: Yaa Gyasi makes several very good points in this piece about white people treating the work of black authors “as though it were a kind of medicine.”