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Kindle Notes & Highlights
by
Helen Hoang
Read between
February 14 - February 17, 2024
I don’t question why people do things. I just observe and copy. That’s how to get along in this world.
She’s my therapist, which means, in my mind, that she’s supposed to be helping me. And she hasn’t been able to, as far as I can tell. But I don’t want her to feel bad. 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. When a deep frown mars her face at my lackluster description of the past week, I panic and say, “I feel like I’m close to getting better.” That’s an outright lie, but it’s for a good cause because her expression immediately lightens up.
When I turn around, my eyes widen at how my butt has grown. A pity. Julian would love this, though he wouldn’t approve of my methods. I didn’t drink protein shakes and spend hours in the gym doing donkey kicks and squats. These curves are made of Cheetos.
Some people collect stamps. I collect quirks, stowing away secret traits about people in my mind like treasure. It makes people real to me, special.
I let the tears fall. I cry for the girl I used to be. I cry for me. It’s a foreign experience. Self-pity is not an indulgence that I allow myself. This doesn’t feel like pity, though. It feels like self-compassion, and the realization makes me cry harder. No one should need a diagnosis in order to be compassionate to themself.
I’m not a therapist or anything. What do you think? Does it feel right to you?” he asks, and I can tell that’s what matters to him. He trusts me to know myself. I didn’t know how important that was to me until now. I get to be the expert on me.