I’ve taught myself how to be content with scraps. I’ve portioned out the things that make me happy in manageable pieces so that I can savor them for longer. I’ve treated my trips to Inglewild as a reward for good behavior, a hit of dopamine to get me through the rest of an otherwise lonely existence. I’ve allowed myself doses of happiness while I cling to it with two hands, terrified if I indulge too much, if I give too much of myself, I’ll be left standing without anything at all.
