My stories turned sad
I (32M) have told myself stories, sometimes even writing them down, for as long as I can remember. I’ve never shared them, because frankly they’re cheesy. The kind of stuff young boys daydream about- getting to be the hero, winning the girl, saving the day. Not exactly literary genius, but I’ve always kind of had a 3rd person narrative of some epic adventure I might one day have (with me as the main character) running in my head. It’s not like I hear voices, it’s just my imagination and I kind of set my mind on autopilot and create an imaginary world and scenario for entertainment. I find that sometimes as I am working, my stories will go in unexpected directions with twists that surprise even me.
I got to live out some of those stories: I had a solid career on Active Duty with the military, got out and become a cop and eventually a search and rescue deputy all while continuing in the reserves. Landed on my feet in corporate America when I decided being a cop just wasn’t for me. Won over the girl, have two beautiful daughters of my own. And through it all, the stories continued running in my head, sometimes making it to paper, but typically just a fun way to take up time while doing mindless tasks.
I noticed the years of beating on my body starting to add up- in short, I feel old (hence not a cop anymore lol). The stories I told myself were no longer about a young hotshot saving the day, they started to become about a seasoned veteran passing wisdom down to the next generation. Still positive, still fun, everybody had a happy ending.
But recently, I find that my little stories have taken a decidedly darker turn: I don’t survive my adventures. The stories I sometimes feel are almost imagined to be narrated from the point of view of one of my daughters, describing her memories of me, how I wasn’t a perfect person but did my best to be a dad, how I laid down my life for someone/something bigger than me.
I would generally describe myself as extremely mentally sound, physically healthy minus some wear and tear, and truly, genuinely happy despite weathering some hard times. However, this almost involuntary shift in my absent-minded stories that were once upbeat, triumphant tales into just… constant suffering and sacrifice… is this just a natural part of getting old or is it time to sit down with a therapist and talk this out? I’m not feeling like hurting myself, but it’s almost like my subconscious has decided that my road is coming to an end and I would like to convince it I have some good years left 😅