The Stories We Tell Ourselves
The more I pushed the memories away, the more persistent they became. Alone, in the late hours of the night, I found myself searching for that fatal flaw. Maybe my life was too complicated. Maybe I wasn’t attractive enough. Maybe my job wasn’t good enough. Maybe I wasn’t funny, kind or fun enough. These thoughts were painful and unwanted. I needed to push them away, so I would pour myself a glass of whiskey and wait for the anger to come and with it, that sweet amnesia.