Sometimes I am ashamed at being unhappy when I have lived—and continue to live—a life of such privilege and relative ease. I don't wish to be unhappy, and I don't seek to be unhappy. And I primarily pursue (with limited success) simple, light-hearted distractions and warm social interactions. I also appreciate what I have and what fate has given me and strive to rely upon myself and not others. But there is a certain self-absorption in misery. I acknowledge that, yet I cannot simply deny the destructive tendencies, ennui, rage, terror and utter distaste for life that make up the core of my being.