I started counting some of my obvious triggers. Whenever I saw an angry man, I’d get intensely pissed at them—my boss, my boyfriend, Joey, a random guy in the street. Whenever Joey chewed the inside of his cheek or set his jaw a certain way, the exact way my father used to clench his, it enraged me. I’d snap, “What? What’s wrong? What’s your problem?” Often, he would look at me in surprise and confusion. “You’re mad,” I’d insist. “I’m not mad,” he said, mad. “Why do you think I’m mad?” “I’m intuitive! I’m good at reading people,” I said.
/relatable
