I can tell you my life story and make it sound like I’ve had the most amazing and wonderful life ever, or I can tell it so you’d feel terribly sorry for me and all my woes. Same life. Different story. And when i tell myself my life story, I have the same choice. I can focus on the crap, or the delights. My pick.
Of course, it’s WAY harder when I’m depressed. My brain goes into some weird “miserable thoughts only” space. But perhaps I could literally take out a pen and paper, and force myself to write down a happy version – not a false version, but one that notices the good that my currently fucked-up brain is ignoring.
