I Hope This Doesn’t Find You

by Ann Liang

The compliment goes down my throat like syrup, warming me up from within. It’s embarrassing how tight I latch on to these little pieces of validation, how much I want to be liked, to make everyone happy. Sometimes I think I would give them one of my own arms if they asked very nicely.

I was surprised someone could genuinely not care what other people thought of her when her situation was my very worst nightmare; she was surprised that someone could genuinely care about a random stranger and sacrifice their own free time to comfort them.

Are you often up at one in the morning?” “No, of course not.” I often go to sleep later than that, but there’s no reason to raise alarm.

Because having one parent is enough. Until it isn’t.

There’s a false assumption people tend to make about me: They believe that all I care about is being the best. That the closer I am to the top, the happier I am. That if it comes down to it, a 30 percent is better than a zero; that being mediocre is at least better than being bad. But I swing between extremes. If I can’t be the best, I would rather be the best at being the worst. If I’m going to fail, I would rather fail at it thoroughly than do a job halfway.

She absorbs this for a moment. “Well, I doubt that’s true. And even if it is, it’s not the end of the world.” I let out a shaky laugh. Adults are always saying that. Other than If someone asked you to jump off a cliff, would you do it? (which simply doesn’t strike me as a realistic scenario; who would benefit from making somebody else hurl themselves off a cliff?) and You’ll understand when you have children of your own (even though I don’t plan on ever having children), this seems to be their favorite line. It’s not the end of the world. And maybe there’s some tiny grain of truth in it. Maybe I’ll grow up and change my mind a decade later. Except for now, this is my whole world.

What I’m realizing is that if you’re quiet about the things that hurt you, people are only going to mistake your tolerance for permission. And they’re going to hurt you again and again.