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2:12 PM
There was a pamphlet on my bed this morning called, "How to Love Yourself," and I groaned because I knew my mom had put it there, but I read it anyway because at least she was finally trying. Step one was to stop all criticism, and I almost stopped reading right there because I lived in a house filled with critical hypocrites. The next steps were just as lame—be gentle, kind, and patient, be kind to your mind, praise yourself, be loving to your negatives. My door was cracked open and I saw my mom peering through it while I was reading, but pretended not to notice. When she was gone, I threw the pamphlet away—shoved it to the bottom of my trash can so nobody would notice it. I knew what she would say if she saw it in the trash: "If you don't love yourself, you'll never be able to love anyone else." Maybe that's a good thing. Maybe I shouldn't be in love with somebody, ever.
I saw the girl from Dr. Edwards' office while I was on my way there. She looked irritated, and angry, and a little bit sad—the way I usually looked before my session started. She was cold, too, and I didn't realize I put my jacket over her shoulders until after it happened and she was staring at me, just like she normally did. I unexpectedly smiled at her, and she grinned back at me as if she had just discovered something amazing. There was a small gap between her front teeth, and the freckles on her nose were hardly noticeable, and her waist was a little too thin. She wasn't classically beautiful.
I told myself that she wasn't beautiful at all. I knew that I was lying.
