When Our Stories Become Old

​We all have these stories we tell. 
 
I like to break them into two buckets.
 
There are the ones we tell about those things that happen in our lives. You know, these stories we bring up at parties that we know will get a laugh. These stories that are classic and funny and so easy to share.  And each time we share these experiences we can hear the story as we tell it. And it comes out the same way each time. We can hear the repetition but can’t seem to detour from the path.
 
Because...
 
Well, these are really just good stories.  Like really good. They capture these moments that we are sharing about in such a good way.
 
 
These stories, I am finding lately that, though these are great stories, and basically true even though over time memory becomes the truth and the truth gets blurred by time. These are good stories. And so they come up. Even though I am a bit bored of them and when I share them, they feel routine and, to me, a bit predictable. And a bit pat. (trite)(mundane)(routine)(habitual)(automatic).
 
But God they are funny. 
 
Like the one about how we named our first dog story. Or the one about our Doberman’s girlfriend, who he dated for a quick minute, and then she had 12 puppies. (now that’s a story!). There’s the moving into Framingham story and the how I met my husband one, too. There’s the when I was pregnant and in law school and rear ended a fancy car in the parking garage, but when he saw my MASSIVE belly…precious cargo. And the we appreciate your talent story about landing a role in a film in New York that they suggested I do for free. 
 
And so many more. 
 
And I don’t want to hear myself tell them anymore. Even though, as I reflect on them as I reflect in this writing, I love these stories a lot.
 
So there are these stories. Still true. Faded a bit with time but I’ve told them so many times that each time I tell them, they are the exact same kind of true.
 
Then there are the other stories. 
 
These are more the ones we tell ourselves about ourselves and about other people.  These are not the, God that was such a funny moment story.  Nope.
 
These are the stories that fit a narrative that serves us. These are the stories that we have created over time because they fill a need. Because we need them. Because they make things make sense.  Until one day…oh fuck, they don’t. 
 
We still use them for a bit more after that. After the oh fuck moment. Because they are a habit and have kept us safe for such a long time and fit the rhythm of our internal dialog.  So we repeat them still. 
 
And each time, they feel that less good. 
 
I was coaching someone the other day, and we were talking about how the shifts we make in our evolutions of our soul in this journey of our human experience, these shifts, when we drop in there is often a delay. Our soul goes ‘oh thank fucking God that you made it here finally’ but in our bodies and our minds there is a bit of a lag. And so the stories, they continue for a bit.
 
And then, one day, we say this story out loud to our friend. Or our therapist. Or our friend who’s a therapist and these words, they exist in the air and we say, ‘oh fuck.’ But louder now, because this really isn’t true anymore.
 
And then we let them go.