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I’ve always been better at dealing with other people’s problems. I even like it. It feels good to help people.
I’m an easygoing person, and there isn’t much that bothers me. But I like that she cares, and not because I was sick and I’ll never be the same but because I’m a person.
She gasps. I could get drunk off that sound; maybe I do.
In books I’ve read, women enjoy it so much sometimes they burst into spontaneous orgasm.” “Wait, what books are you reading?” She ignores the question
He doesn’t know me, though. How can he, when even I don’t? Intuitively, I sense that if I stray from the version of myself that he’s familiar with, he will no longer want me.
Quan, on the other hand, has only known this chaotic, insecure, panic-attack-ridden side of me. He’s seen me at my worst. And he’s still here.
No one has ever wanted to carry a reminder of me on their skin.
Thank you—for being you.”
When I have her in my arms, it feels like the right thing. She fits against me like she belongs here.
“Are we completely ridiculous?” “Maybe,” I say with a laugh.
“People are—they’re so confusing. Sometimes, if I think about things long enough and hard enough, I can understand them. But other times, no matter how hard I try, it’s impossible.”
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
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.
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. But I did. Tough love doesn’t allow room for weakness, and tough love is all I’ve known. Maybe for now, just this once, I can experiment with a different kind of love. Something kinder.
I see, and for the first time in my adult life, I don’t care that I’m making a scene. I haven’t hurt anyone. I shouldn’t be ashamed. I shouldn’t need to apologize. This is me.
Talking to her fills a space in my life that I didn’t realize was empty, and I’ll be sad to see that end.
When she presses her forehead to my neck, everything that shifted out of place upon seeing her settles back into place.
I want to be someone she can tell things to.
I’d bet my Ducati that she doesn’t fall asleep with just anybody. But she did with me. That means something.
He’s talked to me a reasonable amount, listened to me, laughed with me, seen me at my worst, held me while I cried. And he stayed because I asked him to. I think . . . he might be my friend.
It’s nice to be wanted. And sad to be discarded.
But I know that’s the nature of shiny new things. I need to move forward with my life like all the other people who are no longer shiny and new and find meaning where I can.
You were smiling and laughing more. You were happy.” “Smiling and laughing doesn’t always mean happy.”
When I’m home, where people can’t see me, I like to wear bright colors and rainbows and things. It makes me happy. A little.” His brow creases. “Why does it have to be where people can’t see you?” “Because people are mean. They say things like ‘Did you see her?’ ‘I can’t believe she’s wearing that’ or they just look at each other and laugh—at me. I hate being laughed at. It used to happen a lot, but I’ve gotten better at preventing it.”
“I’ll wear rainbows out with you. I don’t give a shit,” he nearly growls as he pulls me close unexpectedly and hugs me.
He hugs me tighter, and happiness expands in my chest. I love this, being held by him, feeling safe.
“I can’t believe it. You’re dorky.” A huge grin covers his face, though he looks almost shy. “A little, yeah.”
I can tell him things that I can’t tell other people. Because he doesn’t matter. Except he does.
That’s when I realize that I trust him. Over the past weeks, he’s proven time and again that he respects me, that he won’t hurt me. I can tell him things. Not because he doesn’t matter. But because he is kind.
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.
All my life, I’ve been told that I need to change and be . . . something else, something more, and I try. Sometimes I try so hard it feels like I’m breaking.
I don’t know if it’s better never to be successful at all, or to have success for a short while, only to lose it.
Just because I look like I’m doing okay doesn’t mean it’s always true.”
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.
He’s being careful, just as he promised. He’s keeping me safe. Gratitude and something else swell in my chest, and I hug him tighter.
“I believe you, though. That’s something, right?” “Yes,” I whisper. That is something. Right now, it feels like everything.
Lots of people do their weddings here, and yeah, I like weddings.
Sometimes I get teary when people say their vows—if they’re good vows or they’re said with feeling. It gets me every time when old dads cry, maybe because I wish my dad cared about me that way.
I kiss her like I’m drowning.
I want to be her rock, someone she’s not afraid to depend on. I need her to see me as whole.
I want to be enough—for her, for me, for the people in my life.
I miss his full-bodied laugh. I miss his dry humor. I miss his crotchety stubbornness. I am afraid, very afraid, that those parts of him, the parts that differentiate him from everyone else, the essential parts of him, are gone forever.
Knowing Anna, she didn’t want to bother me. She doesn’t understand yet that I want her to bother me.
It’s super pathetic of me, but I fucking love getting hearts from Anna. Because I’m crazy about her, I send her a heart of my own,
Her dismissive words sting, but I’m used to this. It’s tough love, meant to help me overcome my extreme sensitivity and be realistic about myself.
I don’t want him to be here for me. Someone else is much better at it than he is.
but she’s the best thing I’ve seen in a long time.
“I’m sorry I’m such a mess. This can’t be fun for you.” She takes a breath and puts on a smile that’s bright and happy. It’s so convincing that I can’t tell it’s fake, and that’s kind of terrifying. “I didn’t come here to have fun. I just wanted to be with you,” I tell her. “I don’t need you to pretend to be anything other than what you are, even if you’re sad.”
