The woman has been telling herself stories about herself for so many years, for nearly her entire life in fact, that they are no longer stories, but simply, truths. The truths of the stories depend on other stories the woman tells herself about the rest of the world, most recently stories about a sibling, a spouse, a parent, an in-law, a friend, and a neighbor she never talks to. She has been telling herself these stories for so long that they too no longer resemble stories, but are, in her mind, truths. It is just how these people are, is one common refrain in all the stories. The woman often tells herself, and others, how fortunate she is to be herself, and not one of these other people she tells stories about, because, if she were not herself, but one of them, then these stories, which all are filled with unsavory tidbits, would be her own truth and not theirs.
What the woman does not yet know, but is soon about to find out, is that these stories she tells herself, and others, are actually her truths since they are her stories, not the truths of the people she claims the stories are about.
If it is true that these stories are the woman's own truths and not the truths of the people she tells about, is it then veritable, for this writer to assert, as she does in the opening lines of this story, that the stories the woman tells herself are not truths but merely stories she thinks are true?
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