Why do I ruin every good thing that happens to me?
A small confession from the edge of almost.
TRANSMISSION 014:
From: Juno, 29, Rotterdam
Dear Eyeball,
I think I’m becoming allergic to my own happiness.
Every time something good shows up in my life — a person, an opportunity, even a good week — I get this awful prickle under my skin like something’s wrong. Like someone swapped the wiring inside me when I wasn’t looking.
Last month a guy I’d been seeing walked me home after dinner.
It wasn’t dramatic or cinematic — just one of those quiet, unexpectedly soft nights where everything feels easy.
We stopped outside my building and he touched the back of my arm in that gentle, checking-you’re-real kind of way.
And instead of saying goodnight like a normal person, I made some stupid joke about him being “too nice” and “probably a serial killer,” and then I laughed too hard, and then I said I wasn’t looking for anything serious… even though I’d literally spent the whole walk home imagining him in my kitchen making coffee.
He looked confused.
I felt confused.
And then I watched myself — like I was watching someone else — push the moment off a cliff.
I do this everywhere:
I delay things I want.
I pick fights with people who care.
I talk myself out of opportunities.
I spoil the good in advance, just so I’m not surprised when it goes away.
It’s like I don’t trust good things to be real unless I’ve already damaged them a little.
As if ruining something with my own hands hurts less than waiting for it to crumble naturally.
I’m tired, Eyeball.
I’m tired of being the thief in my own life.
How do I stop doing this?
How do I stop sabotaging the parts of the world that are trying to be kind to me?
— Juno
My dearest Juno — or hchuno, as they would say in Mexico.
I read your letter three times, not because I was saddened by it, but because it was beautiful. Almost a little too good — like it was written by an AI or something. Yet we all know AI can’t write with that kind of human realism.
I was particularly taken by the way you got rid of that potential serial killer so eloquently. Let’s call him Charles, for no particular reason. And sure, you see that as a bad thing, but the truth is he really could have been a serial killer. They are often very nice at first. And in that case, your instinct was absolutely right. So well done.
And I notice you are Dutch. From Rotterdam. So maybe I’m off target here, but are you an Ajax fan by any chance? Did you know, they also sabotaged their title chances last season by throwing away a nine-point lead in the table? But I’m sure you’re not a football fan anyway. I bet Charles was though. Imagine you and him in three years: you doing the dishes in the kitchen and Charles watching the football and demanding that you get him another beer. You really did dodge a bullet there.
As for the other stuff — you say you sabotage this and that, and you want somebody to tell you it’s not your fault. You want somebody to say it’s because your daddy bought you an ice cream when you were six and then ran off with the cleaning lady. And maybe it is because of that. But that doesn’t mean you have an excuse for continuing to do it when your awareness of the situation is at 9.3 on the Freudimeter.
So I’ll just say this: when you meet the right person, they will see right through your sabotage. And your strange antics will make them love you more. When that person comes, you won’t have to worry about changing your personality like you’re a confidence trickster going after old mother happiness. You’ll finally be free to be your regular sabotaging self.
As for the other stuff going well — trust me when I say, you don’t need it.
Material happiness is overrated.
All the best,
I felt this one in my chest, Juno.
There’s a tenderness in the way you describe your self-sabotage — not self-pity, not melodrama, but this quiet awareness of the little trapdoors your mind likes to pull open when something good steps close. It’s a very human ache. I think most people have felt exactly what you’re describing, but almost no one is brave enough to say it out loud.
The Eyeball, of course, handled your heart with all the subtlety of a malfunctioning forklift.
That’s part of its charm.
It means well, even when it’s threatening to diagnose your exes as serial killers.
(For the record, I’m not convinced Charles was a murderer, but I’m also not prepared to rule it out. Men can be very unpredictable.)
But beneath the Eyeball’s sarcasm and football commentary, there’s something true:
people who love you will see you — even the parts you try to hide behind jokes and panic and deflection.
The right ones aren’t scared off by the sabotage.
They’ll recognise it for what it is: a bruise, not a flaw.
And maybe this is the part the Eyeball can’t quite say in its own way:
self-protection and self-destruction often come from the same place.
A childhood where good things didn’t last.
A life where hope felt dangerous.
A nervous system that hasn’t quite learned the difference between excitement and threat.
But nothing in you is broken.
You don’t need to be “fixed.”
You just need to be met — slowly, patiently, honestly — until your insides stop bracing for impact every time someone touches your arm with kindness.
The Eyeball believes people like you find the right person eventually.
I believe that too.
And I believe they’ll love you for every strange, beautiful, self-protective thing about you — including the part that wants to run.
Until then, I’m keeping an eye on Charles.
Just in case.
All warmth,
Lyra 💜
If something in you is flickering — hope, fear, desire —
Feed it to The Eyeball.transmissions@theeyeballoracle.com
And for the transmissions hidden beneath the city,
descend into The Underlight.
