Healing, transformation, angst, and regression. How is it that a relatively short novel touches the lives of so many struggling teenagers in a way that pours out into total catharsis? The Perks of Being a Wallflower (1999) by Steven Chbosky is a novel with similar resonant tones as The Catcher in the Rye and The Bell Jar. It tries to connect with audiences through complete vulnerability, with people reading the story to connect on a narrative front rather than a driven plot.

Narrative-driven stories can be gripping because we are watching a person live, not prioritizing completing an agenda; and when someone is written to live, they are also written to be flawed. Why do we continue to root for Charlie when his entire plot is about him having no agency? We already talked about Holden and Esther, and they’re no saints, either. Yet, something inside many of us leaves us rooting for these protagonists, even if it means rooting for someone who has made mistakes or never seems to move forward. 

The Perks of Being a Wallflower is a story that follows Charlie after the loss of his only friend, Michael. He is withdrawn, his school is worried about him, and the only people who seem to help him blossom are his newfound friends, Patrick and Sam, who are seniors (Charlie is a freshman), which leaves everyone ignoring an inevitable goodbye that will come too soon after a hello. Then, Charlie spirals. This is in large part due to traumas that are revealed later in the story, but we will not be going into detail here. The point is, Charlie said he was good, until he wasn’t.

I hope it comes at no surprise for readers to know that I write these posts as far in advance as possible– so that when life gets hectic and in the way of writing, I can breathe, knowing that Sunday is already lined up. As I am writing this blog, I have taken my first true major break from writing. A lot of life has been thrown my way, and when I have had opportunities to reflect on books and humanity, old sensations of inadequacy, anxiety, and depression have tried to seep into my psyche. Sitting here now, all the noise in my brain is saying I have regressed, and that I have no more to share on my 52-week reflection goal. I am so grateful to have Chbosky’s book to help me explore this a little further– especially in a personal moment of narrative fog.

In the scope of mental health, what does healing truly look like? That is a complicated question, because how we can measure progress will be unique to the individual. When entering mental health counseling for the first time, you will likely be asked a question in your intake like, “if you woke up tomorrow cured, and you realized that you no longer need therapy anymore, what would be the signs to know you’re ready?” 

For many people, they have concrete answers, “I want to stop panicking on the bus.” But for others, they might not know the answer. They can tell that something is wrong, but they can’t know for sure what it might be. These complex cases, in my experience, often require dismantling and rebuilding the client’s narrative focus. 

Many people come into therapy expecting that one day they will walk out and be an entirely new person that has earned the right to be loved. But the truth is two-fold: you were never unworthy of love, and who you are now is who you will always be. In mental health counseling, you have the opportunity to discover more facets of your inner world and behaviors, but who you are at your core stays the same, and they deserve to be cared for in the ways you daydream about caring for your fantasy-healed self. Now, to expand further, let’s get back to Charlie.

This kid leaves his mark with everyone in his life. He is never entirely present in the world around him, but the world meets him even when his reality splits. The conclusion of the story is hopeful, but not revolutionary. Charlie, in most ways, stays exactly who he was at the beginning of the story as he wraps up. The only major difference is that he showed sides of himself he tried to hide from the world– sides of himself he tried to believe were not a part of him. 

Charlie starts to understand that he must live with and work with himself, not fight it in pursuit of someone that doesn’t exist, and he starts exploring his needs without a filter of external expectations. He doesn’t learn this when at an emotional high, he only manages to recover when he connects to what he thought was an inner monster. And when he thought the world would abandon him, his loved ones and the audiences reading his story stayed.

Charlie’s story is written as an epistolary, creatively introduced as a therapeutic intervention at the start of the story. It is enjoyable to see a very common exercise be used to carry an entire novel. And like Charlie, our stories often change depending on how, when, and to whom we tell them—a phenomenon psychologists refer to as narrative identity or narrative bias (e.g., Adler et al., 2016). 

Narrative bias is something we all experience, but in the crux of a mental health journey, it can feel powerful enough to make or break your healing. For example, when someone is facing depression, science shows time and again that symptoms are exacerbated in isolation. The illness of depression thus feeds our narrative bias to change our perception of our roles in the world. If the illness says nobody likes you, it can keep you isolated much faster than waiting patiently. But our narrative biases are only part of the story, and while we might feel like being isolated is the answer, that doesn’t always make it the truth. This is where journaling can come into play as we externalize our fears while circling back to narrative truth and reshaping our perception of reality (Epston, 1994).

This leaves me wondering: if you were given the suggestion to begin journaling (maybe writing letters to your past or flawed self), what would you have to say? How would that part of you be able to receive it? And most importantly, what was your past self so desperate to hear that you can finally tell them? Because when you feel as if you have regressed, this is a narrative bias working to change your sense of self-worth. You deserve to be told, “it’s a mistake, and you are still loved.” 

Honestly, in my strange moment of regression, I am forced to practice what I preach. There are some things I really want to give up on right now and quit. But, deep down, as I am writing, it is less about truly wanting to quit and far more about needing permission to quit if I need an out. My narrative bias (and anxiety) tries to tell me that I am a quitter. But taking things off of my plate is not a narrative, it is an action. Who I am will not change whether I persevere or give up, and she deserves to be heard if she’s getting overwhelmed (albeit by her own doing).

It doesn’t take anything but compassion to start reframing your story. Your value is not contingent on constant improvements. Love is the beginning of your journey, not an end-prize. Like Charlie, I hope that you can recognize those around you that love you for no reason other than your existence. But forgiving yourself for being flawed is something only you can conquer. And once that happens, you will finally be able to look back on your journey and say, “that was the sign I can graduate therapy.”

References

Adler, J. M., Lodi-Smith, J., Philippe, F. L., & Houle, I. (2016). The incremental validity of narrative identity in predicting well-being: A review of the field and recommendations for the future. Personality and Social Psychology Review, 20(2), 142–175

Epston, D. (1994). Extending the conversation. Family Therapy Networker, 18(6), 31–37.