The Hero's Journey ... to Walmart

what to do once you're out of Yoda's scary cave?

I just want to give a shout-out to two new paid subscribers—Lynn H. from San Francisco and Paul P. from Sausalito. Thanks to the NorCal readership for providing me with funds to continue my author career! You are the best.

Also, this post was originally hand-written on a Remarkable 2 tablet, as I explore other ways to write without making the tendonitis in my left thumb worse. It was a pretty cool process, and the best part—no internet distraction!

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The Hero's Journey ... to Walmart

It seems to me that one of the biggest upsides of storytelling is the ability to wrap the whole thing up with a tidy, satisfying ending. Romances have their HEAs (happily ever after - the name says it all), adventures have their triumph of good over evil (well, I guess romances can have those too, lol), literary fiction has the transformation of a sad person into an even sadder person.

We like watching someone discover the best parts of themselves. We find it satisfying when a character goes through something difficult, often for a cause greater than their own self-interest. We watch them get stronger. We root for love, we cry at defeat, and cheer when the hero goes home after kicking the bad guy's ass, has a bowl of soup, and climbs into bed with their sweetie for a good night's sleep. The Hero's Journey is a thing. But here’s the kicker, something you learn the longer you are here—real life seems to be much less mythic.

What if you go into Yoda's cave on Dagobah, fight your real or metaphorical demons, and when you come out, you are ... still you?

Last week, the acupuncturist stuck both my hands full of needles. I've almost become accustomed to the excruciating pain, but this session had the added bonus of making me cry. I felt so sad that I lay there teary-eyed for twenty-five minutes. The sadness is grief, whether it's unresolved, lingering, or just "the normal amount," I can't say. But when I really go there, the experience is often accompanied by flashbacks to parts of my parents' illnesses and deaths. So I lay there with the needles in, the tears going, having flashbacks of things I'd rather not see again. If someone's going to accuse me of suppressing my emotions, I feel like I have a pretty good excuse?

My therapist once told me that some spectrumy people tend to recall scenes or emotions in the same way others recall numbers or passages of text. Makes sense. I can picture exactly where the jar of vegetable bullion is in the fridge, as well as what the last moments of my mom's life sounded like. Neither of those things screams “handy life skills.”

 After the needles came out (hallelujah), I told the acupuncturist about my experience and of course she said it was good. It meant I was releasing deep-seated tension, and I should cry if I felt like it. I sat there for a minute and decided I no longer felt like it. Oh well.

I've seen some stuff, been through some stuff. Who hasn't? I know I'm not unique. But I've come to learn firsthand how different we all process what we go through. For some, my experiences wouldn't have left them with PTSD thirteen years later.

So here I am. Where is my Hero's Journey? I went into the cave on Dagobah. I fought the monsters, and I did come out a stronger, more experienced person. But where's my HEA? Where is the tidy ending to the story? Where is my new and improved personality? Because I still have to clean the stove and fold laundry and go to the store and get acupuncture for a grumpy thumb, and lie on the table staring at the ceiling vents while I cry and feel so much sadness my body doesn’t apparently know what to do with it all.

sometimes you just need a photo of hawaii.

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