I’ve been told by those I’m close with that I’m the nicest person they’ve ever met. I do my best to be there for everyone, even if I don’t especially care for or like them that much. If someone I know is hurting, it’s always my first instinct to sit with them and hear how they’re feeling. It’s why I chose the major I did; I want to become a therapist to help people better. It hurts me, truly hurts me, whenever I meet someone I can’t help.

The truth is that’s what makes me horrible. I know I shouldn’t think this way. Everything I’ve studied says it’s unhealthy. I know it helps no one, and it only hurts me in the end. I can’t deny it, though. Compassion without wisdom is deadly, and I’m brimming with it. I’ve been made to think dangerous things because I was told it’s what was right. I’ve hurt people because I didn’t know the right way to help them. For someone who wants to help as much as I do, to hurt is the ultimate sin.

It hurts when I can’t help, and I’m scared of that pain. If I ever end up hurting someone else, it makes my entire body feel like it’s eating itself alive. That’s a feeling I’m terrified of. The feeling of knowing there’s a monster inside of me. Someone who’s dying to come out and hurt people I love. Someone who’s begging me desperately not to care about others because they’re starving. They’re angry. They don’t want to care; they just want to claw their way out of me and scream at the world to shut up. I’m full of boiling wrath and hatred, waiting to burst out and burn all who get too close.

But there’s no monster. There’s just me. People can tell me I’m a hero till their faces turn blue. They can say I’m kind to them, that I’m nice, that I’m good, whatever they want. I’m not. I’m just me, and there’s nothing good about that. That’s because I know, whenever I want, I can give in to the part of me that feels that way—any minute of any day. Nothing would change, and I’d still be me. Maybe I’d feel better.

What would be wrong with that?