"You're beautiful," he said. A smile, soft and gentle remained on his face, an echo of the meaning behind his statement.
Were it not for their friendship, she might have spit in his face. Though she had vetoed the idea, bile rose in her throat to remind her of the flavor of his lie. A battle for a response took place in her mind while her face struggle to choose between disgust and the studied acceptance she'd trained herself to use for such cases. Friendship prompted her to lean towards honesty, though she could not bring herself to completely crush his fallacy, conjured in the image of kindness.
Some called it insecurity, she called it realism. Beauty had a definition, and she did not fit it. Even if she happened to catch someone's fancy on occasion, she had long since moved beyond needing to remind herself that someone more perfect would come for him soon. She was content to live as she was. Not quite huge, but a larger, disfigured version of "normal." It wasn't just a personal decision that brought her to this conclusion. Her family, friends and even science had worked together to verify her self assessment.
Which is why her stomach rolled and prepared to vomit every time someone was audacious or pitying enough to speak the lie of beauty to her face. She did not intend to be a burden on anyone's conscience, though that is how she felt when she looked into their concerned eyes while they tried to console her. Consolation. Funny, and fitting. They offered consolation to one who could only be a consolation prize, at best. Or worse, when they thought they were being honest.
She didn't fault them for their confusion, they just didn't know better yet. Of course, any attempt to explain this to them was an insult. Experience had taught her not to get her hopes up every time some young buck came around professing undying love and sighing over imagined beauty. It was annoying, and hurt more every time, until she stopped taking them seriously. So she'd smile, say thank you and discard the compliment at her earliest convenience.
Until then, she'd put up the invisible guard, smile and respond with a "thank you."
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
Spreading the wealth
They tell you to talk to someone about it. They say that sharing your feelings can help you cope. They tell you to live in the moment, instead of being stuck in the past. They tell you what they thinks is wrong, why they think it's wrong, and exactly what they think you should do about it.
The problem is, sometimes it's all poxrot. Stop telling me what you read in your textbook, and listen to what I have to say to you.
Of course, such an action would go against standard shrink procedure. However, that's not the point at the moment.
Here's a question. Imagine Person Q is depressed, and is advised to start talking to people about it and sharing her or his feelings. So, Q goes to talk to friend W. Q shares struggles, fears, nightmares, everything. Now, Q is still depressed, and W is worried about Q. Seems to me as though we've just spread a bit of sadness, rather than doing anything to solve the problem.
Now, feeling worse for the pain, however minor or major, inflicted on a friend, Q ventures into the world of shrinks. After doling out a considerable sum of money, Q is stuffed into a small, staged, supposedly soothing room with someone who pretends to listen, though they've already diagnosed the patient before Q can finish the first story. Soon enough, a small slip of paper, dreadfully judgmental, even in its simplicity, sends Q in search of a pharmacist. Only the span of a few hours separates Q from a drug infected lifestyle. Of course, there was a brief schpiel about the general purpose of the drug, but Q has no idea how to tell the difference between a side effect and an intentional result. So, after every thought, feeling or action, Q must wonder, "was that the medicine, or me?"
Then it spirals downward and Q doesn't know the difference between "talking it out" and complaining. The depression that may or may not have been there in the first place has grown into a minor obsession.
Okay, I'm going to stop ranting. That's enough for tonight, I hope.
The problem is, sometimes it's all poxrot. Stop telling me what you read in your textbook, and listen to what I have to say to you.
Of course, such an action would go against standard shrink procedure. However, that's not the point at the moment.
Here's a question. Imagine Person Q is depressed, and is advised to start talking to people about it and sharing her or his feelings. So, Q goes to talk to friend W. Q shares struggles, fears, nightmares, everything. Now, Q is still depressed, and W is worried about Q. Seems to me as though we've just spread a bit of sadness, rather than doing anything to solve the problem.
Now, feeling worse for the pain, however minor or major, inflicted on a friend, Q ventures into the world of shrinks. After doling out a considerable sum of money, Q is stuffed into a small, staged, supposedly soothing room with someone who pretends to listen, though they've already diagnosed the patient before Q can finish the first story. Soon enough, a small slip of paper, dreadfully judgmental, even in its simplicity, sends Q in search of a pharmacist. Only the span of a few hours separates Q from a drug infected lifestyle. Of course, there was a brief schpiel about the general purpose of the drug, but Q has no idea how to tell the difference between a side effect and an intentional result. So, after every thought, feeling or action, Q must wonder, "was that the medicine, or me?"
Then it spirals downward and Q doesn't know the difference between "talking it out" and complaining. The depression that may or may not have been there in the first place has grown into a minor obsession.
Okay, I'm going to stop ranting. That's enough for tonight, I hope.
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