It's 2019, and I'm half a century old, and I'm realizing that some of my own personal stories have become burdensome to me. They're burdensome because they feel uncommon and complicated and occasionally shameful. They're burdensome because I'm always fumbling through them looking for bits and pieces that will help me explain myself to others and still come out looking acceptable. This is hard and tiresome and annoying. It feels like repeatedly digging through a big ugly purse full of crap to extract an important receipt without exposing moldy crumbs, snotty Kleenex, and judgment-inducing prescription bottles.
I don't want to do this anymore. I'm turning the purse upside down and dumping its contents all over the floor. I'm dumping these stories because I'm tired of them and need to make room for new ones. Dumping them in public is the only way I can truly get them out of my mind and spirit and body, where they're clogging things up and possibly forming a tumor.
If I'm making my stories sound unpleasant, they did form around painful and confusing experiences. Lots of stories do, but this is how we know we're not alone.