I have this very clear memory of myself, around age 10, in the bathroom of my childhood home patching up yet another scraped knee thinking, "There is always something wrong, why does there always have to be something wrong?" That still stands true today, a couple decades later, yet what is "wrong" is not cuts and scrapes from tree climbing, it is mental suffering. I am always some combination of anxious, paranoid, angry, and/or sad. I don't know what it is to feel content, happily excited, or at ease with those around me. There is always something wrong. It's me isn't it...I'm wrong.