There was something wrong with me. Like deep seeded, right down in the marrow of my bones, wrong. I’d always known it. Given two options, I always made the choice that would hurt me, always picked the thing that was bad for me. I tried to justify it by claiming I just hated to be bored. That I’d rather have something hurt or terrify me than feel nothing at all. But maybe, when you looked really closely at all of the choices I made, it turned out that there was a simpler explanation than that. I just didn’t know how to be happy. And perhaps sometimes I believed I didn’t deserve to be either.
