For most of my twenties, there were so many things I didn’t want to be true about myself.
I believed I was quite unlovable, which was my excuse for not trying to be worthy of love in any way. I believed I’d always struggle financially, so I made no serious effort to earn more, to save more, or to build multiple streams of income.
I believed that life was harsh, that people didn’t like me for being skinny, kind of ugly, and not nearly as charming as everyone else, so I lived in a state of perpetual fear — I somehow expected the world to decide that I wasn’t worthy of living on this planet anymore and send me off to spend the rest of my life on the dark side of the moon.
All information indicated that I was right: the women in my lifeeither didn’t want to be involved romantically with me or left me after a couple of months. I always struggled to earn enough to pay the bills. I didn’t have that many friends.
Life was a pain. Hell was other people. And I was but a shadow traveling through life at the speed of your average bus, sometimes a cab or an Uber.