walls

Twenty years ago, I watched a friend rewrite the history of her relationship.

We were tucked in a cozy corner, at Paco’s Tacos. With each dip of her chip, her former boyfriend morphed —from the man she once called “The one” to someone who “Wasn’t sh*t.” 

I nodded along. We do that when someone is arming themselves with a narrative to survive. Who was I to challenge her story when she was coming undone?

It was not the time to mention how often I saw her roll her eyes when he did what she asked him to do or how she used to admire his patience with her. Because the pain was still so palpable, her mind was rescripting the storyline in real time.

As weeks passed, her fiction calcified into what she believed as fact. And I wondered, “What is she sacrificing at the altar of rightness?” 

    “Changing the narrative to fit your opinion doesn’t make the facts go away.” — Nicole Lewis, LCSW

      But this is about more than post-break revisionism. It’s also about the stories we make up when relationships are active. 

      About how our memory becomes selective. Turning, “We struggled with communication” to “They never listened.” 

      The creative editing that goes from “I withdraw when things get hard. To “They can’t handle emotional intimacy.”

      Our minds are unreliable narrators.

      Not because we’re liars, but because we are human. Our egos bend toward self-preservation. We lean on whatever version of the truth (which is relative) that helps us make sense of pain.

        Desire

        Capturing Time, 2018 by Stacey Herrera

        For the record, I am not the exception —I’m the rule.

        I spent years convinced I was the one who got cut deep in a significant relationship. I was so sure I tried harder, loved deeper, and cared more.

        And I had receipts. Evidence. A highlight reel, carefully curated by moi, of all their shortcomings and my effort.

        Then one day, I was scrolling through old messages (don’t act like you’ve never done it). When I found some literal receipts that didn’t match the story I’d been telling. Messages where I was icy. Where I made promises, that I reneged on. Where I was unkind.

        It was like being in a parallel universe where I got recast as the villain.

        Truth has texture.

        It has contradictions and uncomfortable edges that don’t fit our narrative. Acknowledging that truth is relative and subjective but rarely absolute is liberating—sometimes, but not always.

        But there is also a price for being blind, consciously or unconsciously, and it looks like this:

        • Repeated patterns – When we can’t be real about what went down, we can’t learn from it. We bring the same unresolved issues from one relationship to the next. Then we’re baffled when history repeats itself.
        • Shallow connections – Intimacy requires honesty (which is vulnerable). The relationship can’t hold weight when we’re more committed to the story than reality.
        • We miss out on growth – Painful experiences are our greatest teachers IF we are willing to see the lesson..

         Middle Truth

        Admitting that your story might be wrong is courageous.

        And for the record, the story is never entirely wrong. But more than likely incomplete. Maybe a little selective. And a smidge convenient.

        The middle truth is that messy space between total villainy and complete innocence. And it requires us to hold different perspectives at the same time:

        • You can be both the wounded and the one who wounded
        • They can be both wonderful and terrible
        • Your intentions can be good while your actions were harmful
        • The relationship can be a sh*t show and exactly what you needed

        The middle truth rarely ties it up with a neat bow. It doesn’t vindicate us ultimately. Or give us the satisfaction of being unequivocally right.

        What it does offer is a chance to make shift happen.

        Disrupt the Cycle

        Get curious about the parts of your story that feel too neat.

        Perhaps the villains are entirely villainous, while you often seem completely blameless. Even your explanations have explanations that flawlessly absolve you of any responsibility.

        Food for thought:

        • What’s causing me to be defensive about this situation?
        • What would they say happened?
        • What am I protecting by rewriting the story?
        • What do I need to reconsider?

        Don’t gaslight yourself. Or minimize any harm done to you. Some relationships are toxic. Some partners are abusive. And some situations are black and white.

        The truth is a tangled mess of shared responsibility, misunderstandings, unmet needs, and imperfect humans doing the best they can with what they got.

        Sometimes we cling to our stories because the alternative is too painful.

        But what if your deepest healing lies in the part of the story you refuse to see?

        The middle truth waits patiently for your courage to claim it.

          xo,