To anyone who knows me, they know that a compliment is about the worst kind of dialogue they can offer.
I don’t know why it is, it would make sense for a plethora of reasons, but I cannot accept one with a clear conscience. I’ve worked on it – because I know it’s quite annoying for someone to consistently argue what you’re saying, to try to talk you out of your belief in their beauty or wisdom or grace – so I try to smile and say thank you. Most of the time I’m successful at the manners part and the smile must be one of awkward angst.
I cannot accept it, inside.
I’ve driven the compliments out of three boyfriends: at the beginning, I was beautiful and by the end, I had to ask targeted questions so my appearance or performance would be addressed.
I wonder what it is that I would have to change about myself to be able to hear the B word, or the H word, or the P word and not feel dirty.
Ironically, I can accept any compliment as long as it’s doled out in a veil of lust; something sincere, said simply because the person means it is too much and makes me need to take a scrub brush to my brain with liberal amounts of bleach to erase the words.
You look beautiful.
Ha. Yeah. I’m so far from beautiful, inside, so broken, that what I see seems like it will never reflect whatever it is they might.
During this year: Two dates, two men, both complimenting me without an obvious agenda; both aware that I can see myself comfortably as a sexual being, but not as anything someone would be proud to have their arm around in public. Both of them, so uncalculatingly telling me what they like about me, my looks, my self.
But I can’t accept it. It tarnishes the memory of the conversation. It’s my personal equivalent of rape, leaving me vulnerable and unsure which way is up.
Each time someone tells me something about myself that isn’t something I already know and believe to be true, my little bubble of reality and rightness and good enough starts to thin. I can’t maintain a hold on the form of it, when somebody’s trying to come inside. Compliments just shatter the precarious orb of my reality, the one I can cope with, into droplets.
How old will I be, when I can look in the mirror and see someone who others do? What needs to change, for me to not twist my knuckles across each other, letting go the silent pops of joints hyper-extended, at the mention of whatever beauty I might possess?
When will I stop hating myself?
I’d like to know.
