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My encounters with the boys I liked defined the courses of my days and dictated my attitude for a long time.

I thought that a romantic relationship was the answer to all my problems; that there was a simple cure to the sadness, anger, frustration, and stress — all symptoms of typical teenage hormones. I tried to change my interests, my image, and my character to appear more attractive and desirable to each new guy.

I watched this same chain of events unfurl in milder forms with the people around me as well.

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I was fine with changing who I was to be with who I wanted.

Needless to say, my chameleon-like tactics never quite worked.

From talking about poop in a first conversation to spontaneously breaking into gangsta rap songs, there was always something wrong with who I was to each new suitor.

I wasted hours, weeks, and months trying to figure out which character traits I could afford to abandon.

For some reason, even as friends grew distant and the identities of the people I’d trusted transformed, I continued to believe that I needed a relationship to be happy.

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