My dad says the best invention ever made was the human brain’s Forgeterator.

“You see,” my dad would say, “the forgetorator is supposed to make you forget your stories – the ones that have shaped you, for better or worse; the ones that make you think sad things and make you afraid to live.”

I have a lot of stories.

I have the one where my high school sweetheart promised he’d marry me, but after packing up my bags, and my heart, and moving across the country to be with him, he said wasn’t ready to marry me. Ever.

I have the one where I finally let my heart love again only to find out new Mr. Right said he was moving. To Australia. And never coming back.

Then there’s the time I was a ballerina since I was 3 and finally had to call it quits because ballet had left me. With an eating disorder and an obsessive compulsive, perfectionism tic.

Oh, yeah. There’s the one where if the guy I’m dating doesn’t call me back or text me back in what seems like a reasonable time (usually judged by my gut, could be anywhere from 10 – 15 minutes to 2 hours), then he’s just not that into me.

I have the story where when I was 6 years old, even though I have 5 big strong brothers who always said they’d protect me, one of my brother’s best friends came inside me.

And as hard as I try to forget, there’s that one time where I’ve always wanted to move to NYC, and I did. With (-)$500 and one suitcase. Just to find out that, despite all my dreaming and running and trying, I hated it.

Sometimes you don’t forget.

It’s like you can’t because your stories are you.

They’ve dictated who you decide to date and who you don’t. They made you decide to dump that loser who used to tell you that he wasn’t going to call you back because you needed to learn that he did like you even if he didn’t want to talk to you on the phone and that he was just doing it to help you. But even worse, your stories made you decide to date him in the first place.

Your stories made you pick and choose your beautiful friends, and dictate when you decide you won’t take anymore.

Your stories are you.

Sometimes I ask my dad, “How can I forget them?”