“Seriously, this is getting ridiculous. I’m so sick of compulsively checking my email — what am I, a paramedic? There are no true emergencies in my world. But it’s like my hands clickity-click for my inbox before my brain even recognizes what I’m doing. I’ve got to set an intention to check my email two or three times a day, and that’s it.”
I finish my self-diatribe, exasperated. This time. For real.
“You’ve been saying that since I met you. A year ago.”
He says, calmly. No judgment, or irritation. A simple statement of fact.
I laugh. Impossible. A year? I don’t drag my heels on anything! I pride myself on my ability to shapeshift, pivot on a dime, and chase my definition of happiness — with electric speed.
I pause. Shit. He’s right.
A beat. Man, I am SICK of this story…
And I’m not alone. I hear sickness everywhere.
“I’m so sick of feeling like everything comes together at the last possible moment. Like I never really know where next month’s rent is coming from.”
“I’m so sick of going on these auditions where I know they’re really looking for a smart brunette librarian type. Like, what am I supposed to do?”
“I’m so sick of dating these girls who don’t respect my time. Who think it’s OK to commit to a date, and flake out because a ‘better invitation’ comes along.”
“I’m so sick of scrambling to meet deadlines, and working extra hours, late into the evenings — hours I can’t bill. Or ever get back.”
“I’m so sick of eating this crap, ’cause I don’t have the time or energy to cook properly. And I’m sick of feeling so tired, no matter how much I sleep.”
Your unresolved stories are sick. More specifically — they’re making you sick.
Unresolved stories are like ancient poison. Not enough to kill you. Just enough to numb out your potential.
What’s your broken-record track?
What’s the ancient spiel your best friend or partner have long-since learned to tune out?
What’s the New Year’s resolution that garners a recurring spot, every year?
What’s gone on so long, it’s laughable? Ridiculous? Supremely unacceptable?
And what’s it going to take to tear that old story outta the book of your life, with a violent riiiii-iiiip?
Right off. Yeowch. Like a band-aid. It’s time. And a half.
Let the healing begin.