Does it go like this?
It’s not like he hits me or cheats on me.
It’s not like I’m one of those morbidly obese people who can’t sit in airplane seats.
It’s not like I’m dying or anything.
Or maybe this:
I should be glad I even have a job.
Anything is better than being alone.
I shouldn’t complain–other people have it a lot worse than I do.
If anything in the above sounds even remotely familiar, this is for you:
It is that bad. In fact, it’s completely unacceptable. I don’t even have to know you to know that whether your suffering is small and made of constant erosion or huge and overwhelmingly intense, you deserve better.