The Heart Principle (The Kiss Quotient, #3)

by Helen Hoang

I don’t question why people do things. I just observe and copy. That’s how to get along in this world.

I do wonder if she’s acting just like I am. How much of what people say is genuine and how much is politeness? Is anyone really living their life or are we all reading lines from a giant script written by other people?

People like me better when I make them feel good about themselves. So I’m constantly assessing her reaction and editing my words to appeal to her.

I smile at her, but I feel slightly queasy. I don’t like lying. I do it all the time, though. The harmless little lies that make people feel nice. They’re essential for getting along in society.

She sighs. “Doing the same thing over and over hasn’t solved the problem, so maybe it’s time to try something different.”

“I’d like you to watch what you’re doing and saying, and if it’s something that doesn’t feel right and true to who you are, if it’s something that exhausts you or makes you unhappy, take a look at why you’re doing it. And if there isn’t a good reason . . . try not doing it.”

“Do you think there’s a chance that maybe your masking has spread to your violin playing?” she asks.

I’ve seen you tailor your facial expressions, your actions, even what you say, to be what you think I prefer. And now, I suspect, you’re trying, unconsciously perhaps, to change your music to be what people like. But that’s impossible, Anna. Because it’s art. You can’t please everyone. The second you change it so one person likes it, you’ll lose someone who liked it the way it was before. Isn’t that what you’ve been doing as you go in circles? You have to learn how to listen to yourself again, to be yourself.”

For that’s the only place where true perfection exists—the blank page. Nothing I actually do can compete with the boundless potential of what I could do. But if I allow the fear of imperfection to trap me in perpetual beginnings, I’ll never create anything again. Am I even an artist, then? What is my purpose, then?

Family is not safe. Not for me. Tough love is brutally honest and hurts you to help you. Tough love cuts you when you’re already bruised and berates you when you don’t heal faster.

“Just because something isn’t perfect doesn’t mean we need to throw it away.

Do you play? It’s a relief—I don’t want to talk about my current difficulties—but it’s also a disappointment. For some people, their work is just their work, a means of survival. It doesn’t define them. But me, I’m a violinist. It’s my identity, who I am, what I am. It’s all that matters. Naturally, my favorite topic of discussion is music. That reminds me why I invited him here in the first place, and steely determination floods my veins as I say, “Let’s get started.”

“Based on what you’ve told me about your current issues and childhood, and what I’ve personally seen over the past months with you, it’s my opinion that you’re on the autism spectrum, Anna,” Jennifer says.

Difficulty socializing. Need for routine. Repetitive motions. Sensory issues. Consuming interests. Meltdowns. She’s describing autism, I realize. It also sounds eerily like she’s describing me, but that’s simply not possible. “I can’t be autistic,” I say, interrupting her. “I hate math. I don’t have a photographic memory. I fit in. I have friends, a boyfriend, even my mom’s friends like me. I’m nothing like Sheldon from The Big Bang Theory or—or—or the brother in Rain Man.” “None of those things are diagnostic criteria. They’re stereotypes and misperceptions. And I believe your fitting in is a result of a great deal of masking on your part. It’s common for high-functioning autistic women like you to acquire late diagnoses because they ‘pass,’ but it’s not healthy. I’m concerned you’re on your way to autistic burnout—if you’re not already there,” Jennifer says with a worried frown. I have no response. Her observation has literally made me speechless.

darkness before passing on. In these pages, I read about other women, their experiences, their difficulties, their strengths. But it feels exactly like I’m reading about myself—the way I copy my peers so I fit in; the way I don’t understand them but I pretend; the way I used to hide under the table at parties to avoid the noise and the chaos and the stressful social interactions, much to my parents’ embarrassment; the way I need rigid structure in my day or I can’t function; the way I can’t stand to focus on something unless it’s interesting to me and then I get tunnel vision; even the way I’m tapping my teeth right now. I’m stimming. In secret. In broad daylight. I’ve been doing it my entire life. Just like the women in the book, there’s always been a lot “off” about me, so much to change, to suppress, to hide—to mask. It was painstaking, often exhausting, work, but my efforts were rewarded with my family’s approval and the acquisition of friends and a boyfriend. By changing myself, I earned a sense of belonging. But maybe I belonged all along. Just with a different group of people. I did all that work. I experienced all that confusion and pain. And maybe I didn’t need to. Maybe with the proper insight, I could have been accepted the way I was. When I’m done reading pertinent sections of the book and everything in the manila folder, it’s the golden hour. This used to be my favorite time of day to play the violin because it feels like there’s magic in the air. Logically, I...

The end doesn’t come, though. Not in a minute. Not in two, three, four, or five. The thing with feelings is they pass. Hearts aren’t designed to feel anything too intensely for too long, be it joy, sorrow, or anger. Everything passes in time. All colors fade.

“I’m so used to seeing you. Now I get to focus on feeling you.” His lips land on my forehead, on an eyebrow, eliciting a laugh from me, on the tip of my nose, my mouth. He sucks on my bottom lip, licks, and then claims my mouth with bold strokes of his tongue as his hands sweep over my body.

Logically, I know he won’t ease the ache in my body—there’s no way he could know how—but I want him anyway. I want his kisses, his caresses. I want him close. Most of all, I want him to want me. My kisses acquire a wild edge. I slip my hands under his shirt and test the firmness of his stomach, his chest, his back. Even without the light, I can sense how strong he is, how fast. I am neither of those things, and I delight in our differences. When I register the hardness pressing against my lower belly, I rise instinctively onto the tips of my toes until we line up . . . just right.

In these modern times, people are told that they have the right to say no anytime they want, for whatever reason they wish. We can let nos rain from our lips like confetti. But when it comes to my family, that word is not mine. I’m female. I’m youngest. I’m unremarkable. My opinion, my voice, has little to no value, and because of that, my place is to listen. My place is to respect. I say yes.

He tilts his head, aiming a confused smile at me. I try to smile in return, but my lips don’t want to comply. I don’t know how to explain how wonderful it feels to be cared for, even in this small way, after all this time tending my dad, how dark it’s been, how lonely I’ve felt, even though I’ve been surrounded by family, the people who love me most. Even as I think that, I find myself wondering, Do they really love me, though? Can they, when they don’t know who I truly am? That’s part of why I’m so exhausted, I realize. I’ve been masking nonstop for months, for my dad, but also for my mom and Priscilla. I don’t usually notice because I see them for a few hours, a day or two max, and then I get to leave and recover. It’s like pricking yourself with a needle. Do it once, and you’re okay. You can ignore that it even happened. Prick yourself repeatedly without giving yourself time to heal, and soon you’re injured and bleeding. That’s me. I’m injured and bleeding. But no one can see. Because it’s inside where I hurt. Be that as it may, is it fair to recognize my own pain in the face of my dad’s suffering? Self-loathing washes over me, and I ridicule myself, here in the privacy of my mind. It doesn’t make me feel better. It’s not supposed to.

My throat locks, and I shake my head ineffectually. How can he expect me to speak up for him when I can’t even speak up for myself? I’m not allowed to. Why can’t he see that?

I can’t bear the sadness in his eyes, so I look down at my feet and do my best not to make a sound as my tears fall. I hate that I’m hurting the person I love. I hate that there’s nothing I can do about it. I hate how trapped I am in my life. There’s no winning for me. I’ll never be able to please everyone. “I’m going to go,” he says. Everything inside me rebels at his statement, and I bunch the fabric of my dress in my hands as I fight the urge to reach out and stop him. There’s an invisible barrier around him now, and I’m not allowed inside it. “I don’t want you to go,” I say, and it feels like the words come from my very soul, they’re so true.

I watch him until he’s gone, and even then, I stare at the intersection where he turned and disappeared from view. That’s it. We’re over now. He’s broken up with me. I’m not ready for a future where I never see him again. Yes, I still have my family. But what do I have to look forward to now? Where is my safe place now? He’s just a man. I shouldn’t feel so empty with him gone. But I know I’ve lost something important, something essential. Because I haven’t just lost him. I’ve also lost the person that I am when I’m with him—the person behind the mask. I’ve lost me. “Anna, are you out here?” I hear Faith call out behind me. I can’t find it in me to move or tell her where I am. I don’t want to be found. It’s quiet out here, and I want to be alone.

Writing this author’s note is a momentous occasion for me.

I’m sharing this because I want people to know how real and serious caregiver burnout is. I’m lucky to be alive. I feel like there’s a conversation about caregiving that society isn’t having. It’s not something that people can freely talk about. No one wants to be seen as “complaining,” and no one wants to make a loved one feel like they’re a burden. But the truth is caregiving is hard. Not everyone is suited for it. I most certainly am not, and it has nothing to do with my being on the autism spectrum. There are many autistic people who work as nurses and doctors and other types of healthcare providers and derive meaning and satisfaction from it. Even those who like this kind of work can get burned out from the heavy physical, mental, and emotional tolls it takes on them, as we’ve seen among frontline workers caring for patients with severe COVID-19. As a society, we need to have compassion for all people affected by illness and disability—and that means those who receive care as well as those who give care. We all matter, and no one should feel like they can’t ask for help when they need it. If someone says they’re hurting, please listen. Please take them seriously. Please be kind. If you’re hurting, please be kind to yourself.