When I was little and being a kid, every now and then I’d get a splinter.
It hurt. I couldn’t forget that it was there. But I was terrified of having it removed. I avoided telling my mother. I waited and waited and waited until it became unbearable and then, when she rightfully went for the disinfectant and tweezers, I’d break down in tears. Somehow the trade-off – the promise of brief pain that would spare me later and more enduring problems – didn’t seem worthwhile.
I’d laugh at my younger self, except I haven’t changed much. Perhaps you haven’t, either. Even as an adult, I do everything that I can to avoid or alleviate situations where I sense I will encounter any of the following: pain, discomfort, fear, or grief. If a person has a habit of making cutting comments to me, I try not to hang out with…
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