One of the books I’ve read in the past month is Matthew Perry’s memoir “Friends, Lovers, and the Big Terrible Thing”. I didn’t expect to cry reading it. And I didn’t expect Matthew Perry, a man I knew mostly as Chandler Bing, the sarcastic glue of one of my favorite comfort shows, to tell my story, in a way. Not the addiction part, exactly. Not the rehabs or the pills. But the feeling behind it. The engine under it. That desperate, invisible hunger to feel worthy. To be enough. I knew that feeling by the time I was eight.