In the summer of 2016, falling onto my knees in the pain of failure, I found myself writing a fairytale that seemed to capture the essence of what hurt so much. I was amazed at how the exercise of doing so helped me to gain clarity.
Writing the first fairytale came after failing to be able to write a book about a life of amnesia and therapy gone wrong. I began to imagine that I was an obsessed painter, a man in a small house inside a forest. I imagined that I kept painting until the paintings filled both my house and the forest that surrounded me.
The paintings of course are my pages. The thousands of them that I live with that I try and at times makes sense of, at other times celebrate and at other times feel overwhelmed by.
The first version of this fairytale helped and helps me to understand the desperate need to be witnessed and seen, all these paintings of mine.
And the second version of this fairytale is about what happened to me in therapy, how this witnessing that I so badly needed went so awry.
I continue to use my fairytale to help when I am stuck and unable to see a situation clearly.