The Stories We Tell Ourselves

The stories we tell ourselves are the myths we come to believe about ourselves and the world around us (Is the actually a World around us?).

When I was a boy and was forced to go to Boy Scout camp, where there was a myth about the Polliwog Man. I was terrified. I was especially terrified because one day I was walking along a path, and the plants beside the path rustled. I crouched down, and reached out. I parted the plants to see what was doing the rustling, and there he was, looking much like the Creature From The Black Lagoon- THE Polliwog Man! I screamed and ran. Camp from then on, was a place of panic and fear, and separateness.

My imagination was that powerful. The myth, conjured for me was that potent. The reality was palpable. For me, the Polliwog Man existed, and I told my troupe leader so. I am sure he thought I was too far gone to be helped. I was likely a burden to him. I am certain he wanted me gone as much as I wanted to be gone. Sometimes, the irrational beliefs of the visionary/touched/not-right make others wary, cautious, or just plain annoyed.

Now at the age of 54, I am writing about this for the first time. I can do so because I am fairly certain the Polliwog Man does not exist, and because I think there is something real in this story which speaks to the role of fantasy, delusion, myth, and magic in our lives. It is a tangled ball of string to me, my life, my perceptions- the real, the un-real. I have attempted not to judge it- allow myself to be "special", to entertain magic in my life. But internalizing it for 42 years has complicated the magic. It darkened. The memories are mired in thought and interpretation. I still see his face in the brush, clearly; but there are 42 years of strata piled on top of the image. Beneath it all are feelings of wonder and terror.