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On Scary Stories

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Photo by Taylor Foss on Unsplash

I've been thinking about stories lately. Mot the kind we write but the kind we tell ourselves. I put up on Twitter a few of the stories I tell myself in my head all the time. Here are some:

- I'm a terrible writer b/c English isn't my first language

- My backstory isn't interesting enough to be an artist

- I'm a bad mom, and my kids are doomed to misery

- My body is old and useless

- I'll never be able to let go of these stories

I've been working hard not to let these stories take over. Over the last few weeks, for instance, I started running three times a week. And some of these days, my body does feel old and useless. But I love running, so I go out anyway. And the stories about being a bad mom, a bad writer, all of these I know. I keep doing both anyway.

The last one is new, though. The idea that I'll never let go of these stories and be happy with what I have can despair even the toughest among us. It makes me think that fighting my anxiety/depression and the stories they tell me is pointless. If I won't be happy anyway, what's the point? I might as well go back to bed.

And by the time I get there, I realise what this is. It's my seasonal fight, only slightly different this time because I've changed over the last year. Still, I can see this one coming, even if it's wearing a new outfit. Hello, old friend, welcome back. It's ok. I'm strong enough for both of us.


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