佚名/Anonymous
RecentlyIturnedtoafriendwhowasridinginmycarandaskedher, “Whatdoyoulikeaboutyourself?”, sheturnedtomeandsaid, apologetically, “Ican'tthinkofanything.”
, charming, andcompassionate—yetshecouldn'tseeanyofthat.
Iknowshe''sassurancethathe'sabsolutelycrazyaboutus, mostofuscan''slikethecynicaleditorwhotellsthecubreporter, “Ifyourmothersaysshelovesyou, checkitout.”
“garbagein, garbageout”.Ifyourrawdataisflawed, -confidence, maybewe’reworkingwithflaweddata.
Therealityis, inhundredsofsubtleways, ourculture, family, friends—evenourthoughtlife—, encouragement, andrespect—, ourtitle, , weknowitisn'?
I’, torepairthings, , IwasconvinceditwastheendoflifeasIknewit.
Irememberwithpainfulclarityabeginner'scomputerclasswheretheinstructortoldusto “pressanykey”.Isearchedinvainforthe “any”, IwascertainIwasn'tsmartenoughtodrivemyselfhome, , afamily, ajob, andaprofessionalstaff.
Whywasitsohumiliating? , .
'swhytheabsenceofself-confidencecantelegraphtoothersnottobelieveinus.
, I’ddiscountit.I’, theremustbesomemistake.I’'tlikemyselfandcan'treallybelieveyoudo, , ifwepersistinputtingourselvesdown, eventuallypeoplestarttobelievewe’reright.
Sometimestheproblemisn', butwecapitulatethefirsttimesomeonechallengesus.
Severalyearsago, , whenIresumedperiodicself-examination, ! WhenIcalledthedoctortosuggesthemighthavemissedthelumpinquestion, , hesaid, , hewasthedoctor.
Igotoffthephone, doubtingwhatI’-examineme, atwhichpointhereluctantlyacknowledgedthat, yes, .
