So you want to be sure. You want to know, without a shadow of a doubt, that you're doing this for real, and not out of some sense of approval from other people. Or would it be masochism? The sick urge to isolate yourself, to cement yourself in the eyes of

everyone around you as unlovable, as broken, as irreparably damaged goods. Regardless of what the motivation is, think about it. Don't so many ideas spring to your head? So many sick catharses, infinite ways to deliver the news that you know, you have it figured out, and for those around

you to react? Maybe they'd tell you they love you, and they'd embrace you and it would be okay. Maybe they'd spit on you, and you could live the rest of your life as a noble martyr, ousted by those you love but living your true life. But it all comes down to

that, doesn't it? The way other people see you. Isn't it possible there's something deeper wrong with you? That this isn't the solution? And you'll start down this path, and then two or three years in, it'll hit you. That you did it all for other people. For the pride

of knowing that even if they hate you, they know you're true to yourself. And worse, it'll hit you like a bullet out of a shotgun that it didn't fix you. That this wasn't it. That you're a shell of a man, pretending to be something he's not.