The Gift of Reflection

reflection: that which sends back an image, showing the state or nature of something.

I’m not certain when I was first exposed the story of Oedipus, though I clearly remember my introduction to Greek mythology. I was eleven, writing a research report for the home school co-op I attended and had found the most beautifully illustrated book of Greek myths in the library. I emerged on the other side of my first read through utterly disgusted by the Greek Pantheon and absolutely obsessed with Cupid & Psyche. The story of Oedipus wasn’t included.

Somehow Oedipus was an impression - something I just knew without ever recalling a formal introduction. An impression that left me feeling dirty. I kind of skirted around the tragedy, unwilling to even let myself be curious - a dude having s-x with his mom? No, thank you. I’m good.

And then I heard an interview with Bryan Doerries of The Theater of War on the Art of Manliness podcast. He mentioned performing Oedipus (Rex, I believe) in prisons and opening conversation with the prisoners afterwards. And my brain tripped over itself and face planted in the startling observation these incarcerated men made. Oedipus was a man they could identify with - not because of the incest - but because Oedipus was a son abandoned by his father, a man who carried the physical scars of an attempt on his life in his infancy - a death planned by the man who should have protected him, unopposed by the woman who should have fought for him, and avoided only because of the compassion of a stranger. Oedipus was a man set on an unavoidable path by fate and yet he’s also a man who made his own choices and had to live with the consequences of them. These men felt that they could identify with the complexity of Oedipus’ life.

I held their observation close, letting it settle into my thoughts, pulling it out in random moments to contemplate their thoughts and Oedipus’ journey. Letting myself see beyond the incest to the man and his journey. I wanted to know more, to understand. Curiosity stretched out uncertainly and found Antigone.

Antigone blew my world wide open.

Her story gave me context to experience my own pain and then pointed me right back to Oedipus. Together, they painted the story of a family stuck in a cycle of honor, integrity, and fatal grief. And I felt seen.

Some Personal History

When I was eleven my parents were exposed to a religious subculture through a borrowed resource that would open a door to years of abuse, manipulation, and loss. And there is not a doubt in my mind that my parents took this road believing it was the right thing to do. Believing they were honoring God, believing it was an act of love towards their (eventually) eight children.

Spoiler alert, it got fucking ugly.

My life split into three. The Before, the Second Self, and, following an episode of self harm, Therapy.

When I picked up Antigone, I was tiptoeing through the ruins of my life and trying to make sense of the story I had been telling myself about my experiences, the parents I thought I knew - the ones I’d had up until around age twelve, the ones I saw glimpses of thereafter - and the devastating impact it had all had on my life. None of it was matching up. The trauma symptoms I was living with made sense within the context of my experience, but my interpretation of that experience didn’t really allow me to see my parents as responsible for their choices. Somehow, the whole thing was above reproach and my trauma symptoms were indicative of my own lack of faith and my own weakness. If I had been stronger, if I had been better at denying myself and my selfishness, I never would have ended up so broken.

When I picked up Antigone and looked at her story in the broader context of her father’s life, I found an container to hold my confusion as to how I could have memories of parents who loved me mixed so deeply with parents who hurt me, again and again.

I looked at Oedipus and saw a man making honest and devastating mistakes in ignorance. I saw my parents¹.

When I saw Antigone, I saw a daughter trying to live with integrity in the ruins she had inherited from her parents.

To Be Seen

We humans are deeply relational beings. We yearn to be seen, to be known, to know and see and love and be loved. There is a soul rending pain of standing on the outside, an isolation that comes from bearing our wounds and not having them be understood by others, from listening to others recount their history and realizing we have no context for human experiences common within our culture. We can feel like foreigners in our own communities, in our own homes.

That otherness compounds the effects of our pain. It amplifies the voices in our heads that tear at our sense of self, it darkens the depression, enhances the uncertainty, and feeds the cycle of isolation.

When we can find a narrative that allows us a context for our experiences, something that allows us to feel seen, it’s a fissure - relieving pressure, allowing for air flow. It’s hope.

Story, spun from the imagination or from the lives of others, holds an incredible potential to reconnect us to the broader experience of being human, allowing us to psychologically put ourselves back in the context of community - paving the way for physical reconnection with others.

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And you, reader? What stories have given you context, given you hope and paved a path to connection with others?

1. I no longer identify my parents with the story of Oedipus. As I’ve continued processing and trying to construct a narrative that allows me to make sense of my experiences I no longer see them as making quite so many ignorant decisions as Oedipus made. I hold them far more responsible for what happened to us, and allow myself to be angry with them for not receiving the expressed concerns of people we knew on the outside. I’m sure things will continue to evolve as I continue to process.