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It is a bleak moment indeed when you realize that you don’t actually like yourself—that you’re the kind of person you wouldn’t want to be friends with. That you don’t know how you came to be that person, and you don’t know what to do about it.
I knew that kind of weeping. I’d cried like that—not just put out, or angry, but a storm of emotion let loose in an unstoppable wash. It had all the marks of a cry done in secret, let out in that judicious moment when no one can see, when no one will know. A cry done on schedule so that no one around you is inconvenienced and life can go on. I’d cried like that in dressing rooms and on the fire escape of the apartment I’d lived in with Henry. All over America, women cry like that in toilets, in their cars, and on their back stoops every day.
