My whole life I was completely horrible at relationships. An idealist about love, and the potential of relationships and people, but totally useless at the reality. Some of it was in my choices, much of it was in my reactions and most of it was because I had no idea that I was acting purely unconsciously all the time and therefore felt like I had no choice and definitely limited power in the chaos that kept unfolding in front of me.
I believe I have the most epic collection of heartbreak stories. It seemed unfathomable to me at one point to imagine that love was anything other than heartbreak and tragedy, and when I told my stories (polished with sadness and betrayal and abandonment) my world and where I was in it seemed justified and right.
I made a decision finally, after all that, to change my story. Do the stories hurt or do they heal? Do they define me or did they make me? For the change to happen, I had to choose. I had to decide that I wanted something different and although the grand finale was worthy of a season of a soap opera, I knew it was time to stop living the same episode over and over again. And that changed everything.
I retold some of this last year to a childhood friend, but as I told them they all seemed IRRELEVANT. Like completely and utterly nothing to do with my life now. It was almost like I was stating the “facts” but there was nothing emotional in there. For suddenly, none of that mattered anymore.