My Golden Cage

We all make up stories in our head. Brené Brown (2019) talks about it in her Netflix special, psychology labels it as a distortion of the mind, and a non-judgmental demeanor is as a first line of defense. Today, I got a real taste of exactly what that means.

It wasn’t the first time I had an experience like this, although it sure feels like an unprecedented occurrence every time it happens. It’s a an out-of-body sensation, almost like being struck by lightning before falling into nothingness – as it hits me, I see a lucid image in my head, my body goes limp, I grasp for air, my heart sinks to the pit of my stomach, and the floor is pulled from underneath my feet. Once I plummet back into reality, I feel defeated, void, heartbroken, as I realize just how much I am to blame for my own suffering. Rick Hanson (2009) conceptualizes suffering as second darts we inflict upon ourselves after we’ve already been pierced by the first – in these moments, I become aware of the excessive frequency and force with which I throw those second darts.

Why was I so shell-shocked then this morning when I found myself incessantly sobbing in the doorway of our bedroom sagged into a cross-legged seat, you ask? Because today was different. The sudden strike of lightning felt vicious, the fall seemed agonizingly numbing, and the impact upon diving back into reality was deafening. But the epiphany was grand as I started to realize the issue: I’d failed to see the bigger picture. Instead, I had focused my efforts on diverting minor, less pivotal, not as ubiquitous second darts – I don’t dwell on mistakes as much, I’ve learned not to take being cut off in traffic as a personal attack, and I understand that the valet who condescendingly told my husband and I to do a better job reading street signs was probably just having a bad day (or maybe life).

What I hadn’t grasped was the suffering I perpetuate in the greater scheme of things. The suffering I create in the stories I tell myself. A suffering that’s kept me feeling stuck for a while now. Stuck in a vicious cycle that is an infinite spiral staircase with no beginning or end, always holding me captive somewhere in the middle, like a prisoner caught in an optical illusion, incessantly running upward, tread after tread, step after step, without covering any ground or making any progress. Yet as I was sitting there in my puddle of tears and sorrow, across from my beloved husband, I started to fathom the flaw in my perception. Slowly, my resistance to admitting my shortsightedness turned into panicked despair driven by the fear I might actually be crazy (a feeling I’m unfortunately awfully familiar with).

Then finally, in response to me refuting his statement of forgiveness, my husband said “It is ok. You’re ok. We’re ok. Everything’s ok. You keep doing this to yourself. You keep telling yourself it’s not ok, and then you let it define you. But you don’t have to. We can have moments like this and then move on. We don’t have to make the next moment about the one that’s already passed.” And just like that, he had taken all the weight off my shoulders. Relief spread through my body the way water fills a river system after a dam is opened, bringing life back to my heart. I was able to breathe again. He was right – I wasn’t merely perpetuating my own suffering, I was the curator of my pain, the one throwing not only second, but first darts. I was telling myself we wouldn’t be able to recover from this. I was telling a story of defeat and failure. I was, in fact, creating a narrative in which my past consistently became my future, manufacturing my own suffering by design. I was stunned by this discovery, unable to comprehend its significance just yet.

Fast forward a few hours, and the epiphany reached its apex as everything finally came full circle. We’ll have to take a little detour for you to understand its magnitude. I’ve felt tortured by my mind for as long as I can remember. Not knowing any better, growing up, I thought it was the norm. Then, through therapy and my various degrees in psychology, I learned my fate was not predetermined – I didn’t have to live my life in agony and pain. I could find happiness and peace. Yet despite all the tools I learned and all the theories I studied, I never figured out how to break free. Instead, the more knowledgeable I grew, the more stifled I felt. I would often describe my experience as being locked in a golden cage: I was a privileged white woman from the upper middle class who always had more than she needed and never thought she had the right to complain about life, much less struggle with it. From inside my enclosure, I could see the wonders, pleasures, and delights the world had to offer, and I knew absolute bliss existed. I was also well aware I held the key to my own cage; I had the power to set myself free.

Until just a few hours ago, I was convinced I was inching infinitely closer to finally finding that key with every moment of reflection, every new insight, every change in perspective. But I was missing something. Finally, after I had a chance to fully grasp the meaning of my husband’s words, it dawned on me – I’m not the keeper of the key, I am the architect of the cage. I perpetuate its existence every time I tell myself I’m locked inside with no escape in sight. I will never find freedom if I keep telling that same story. So instead of searching for the key, instead of unremittingly trying to find an answer, I need to be the answer. Because I am the answer. I am the author. And the golden cage in my story no longer requires a key. Its doors are flung wide open.

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References

Brown, B. (2019, April). The Call To Courage. Netflix Special. Talk was presented as a special event at UCLA, Los Angeles, CA.

Hanson, R. (2009). Buddha's Brain: The Practical Neuroscience of Happiness, Love, and Wisdom. Oakland, CA: New Harbinger Publications.