Don’t Tell Me I’m Beautiful…

… I never know how to react when someone says that. I don’t see myself that way, and I don’t think I ever will. I see my flaws too clearly to be able to accept the idea that I’m anything more than average or cute. As much as I’ve tried to change my appearance – losing weight, dying my hair, dressing better – my self image is still pretty much the same. I’ve tried to see myself the way others say they see me. I’ve really tried. And while I can see how individual parts of me are attractive, I can’t seem to see myself, as a whole, as attractive.

Maybe I can’t see the forest for the trees… but no matter how many times I’m told that I’m beautiful, I always find a way to discount it. I look in the mirror, and instead of seeing the nice things about myself, I see every flaw, every blemish, every extra pound… the scar on my forehead, the one on my eyelid, the one on my arm, and the ones on my thighs… the stretch marks, the sag of my tummy… the stray hairs between my eyebrows that I have to yank every so often, the funny curve to my fingers, the frizzy mess my hair becomes without oodles of gel and leave in conditioners, the space between my two front teeth…those are the things I see. Not the beauty that others say is there.

So when you say I’m beautiful, I can’t help but think you’re either lying or deluded. I can’t help the blush of embarrassment I get because I think you’re just saying it to flatter me. I can’t help not knowing what to say, because the only words that come to mind are “bullshit” and “you’re just saying that.” But I’ve learned to hold my tongue, as those responses just cause further discussion of the topic… and I don’t want to hear it. The words are lost on me anyway. I’ve always believed in showing, not telling; in actions speaking louder than words…

So, if you want to tell me that you think I’m beautiful… don’t.

Show me instead.