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Everything worth doing hurts at least a little bit.
Had I allowed him to shit in my mouth in the public square, Jack couldn’t elicit the kind of shame my own acquiescence cultivated in me. His abuses, his infidelities, his acts of violence—big and small—they shaved away the epidermis of my soul, layer by layer, leaving me raw and rough and unrecognizable. Sometimes even to myself.
She wondered if perhaps the difference between youth and middle age was not simply having gray hair or stubble but wearing the pretense of having it together.

