More on this book
Community
Kindle Notes & Highlights
The truth was, I didn't choose the messy life. All this messy chose me—and I was okay with that. I mean, I had to be. I was a perfectionist good girl with the heart of a raging bitch. Messy was the only way to rock this bun.
Everyone loved the kid who was so damn mature for her age. They never saw it as the outward manifestation of inner stress. They never stopped to ask how that kid got to be so mature. They never asked why she couldn't just be a kid. They only reaped the benefits.
"How do you manage to dig a hole that deep and throw your entire body into it in less than thirty seconds? I want to know because it's so unbelievable. I want to squeeze the juice out of your brain just to study it."
Good little girls who grew up into people-pleasing women didn't get that way through any innate altruism or feminine urge to keep the peace. We got there because we learned, at some point, that our needs were a problem best kept to ourselves. We were most worthy when our existence didn't bother anyone.
"You sucked the soul out of me, sweetheart. I hope you put it to good use."
I'll stare at my plate for two hours because even at thirty-nine fucking years old, I know I'll crack in half if I have to watch him tell me that I'm all wrong. I'll nod along like I'm agreeing with him because arguing is so much worse, though it's not like I'm ever able to argue in the moment. Even when I prepare myself for these situations, I don't have the right responses at the ready. They disappear. It's like I'm helpless. Like a child who can't stop and say, 'Who the fuck do you think you're talking to?'"
I wanted to show her off tonight. Stand in front of all of our friends, loop my arm around her waist, say, "Do you see? This one's mine." At the same time, I wanted to barricade us behind locked doors and under cozy blankets, press her hand to my chest, and say, "Do you see? This one's yours."
