Before we’d broken up Sarah had told me that I was like a scared, beaten dog who lived under a porch. And I agreed. I wanted to finally move out from under the porch and live in the daylight, but I couldn’t. Under the porch was lonely and dark. But it was familiar, and nothing could really hurt me there. If I came out from under the porch and ran around in the light I would be seen for who I really was: the inadequate eight-year-old boy with food stamps in his pocket. If I enjoyed life or opened up to anyone I would be ridiculed and hurt. Then I’d slink back under the porch, remonstrating with
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