I just wasn't psychologically made to get married or, God forbid, be a father.
A dog, for me, it's not just getting a dog. I couldn't leave him at home. I'm looking for a life partner and I'm not ready. I'm not emotionally mature enough.
I'd be a bad father. I'm too self-involved.
I know it's horrible to have to admit that, but I'm not adult enough to take care of a child.
As soon as she'd met him at the arrivals gate on his return from Thailand, lithe and brown and shaven-headed, she knew that there was no chance of a relationship between them. Too much had happened to him, too little had happened to her.
If one's conscious life is too rigid, too regimented, then the surface may crack at times, and we are unprepared for the strange emotions or sensations we experience.
Unlike my mother, my father does not cry quietly. His wails roll out like a wave of pain, and I scramble to roll up my window. My mother cannot hear that. I cannot bear to hear it myself. I am not used to my father's crying. I've had no time to harden my heart against him.
I was so awash in sensory overload that I was caught completely unaware when he did push me away
I've never known anyone more ill equipped for happiness. He wouldn't know what to do with it.
And the curt truth is that, in a deep secret way, the state of being loved is intolerable to many.
It's insecure, and it's immature.
