Someone I used to know once told me, on the fourth night of us sleeping together, that he knew why I didn’t want to write sad stories.
“Why?” I said.
“Because you’re afraid of being sad,” he said.
That just showed how much he didn’t know me, that I did (and still do) write sad stories, and that writing happy, funny stories, doesn’t mean that I can automatically be happy. At that time, however, the best response I could come up with was, “Don’t try to analyze me.”
It was a red flag for me, but I chose to ignore it. Several months later, he said I was too exhausting for him, that meeting me was unhealthy.
It was a red flag for me, but I chose to ignore it.