Don't Tell Me I'm Beautiful

“You are so beautiful” he whispered in my ear as he slid his fingers into my swimsuit and into my vagina. As he squeezed my chest where breasts had not even thought of forming on my 10 year old body yet. As he shoved himself inside me until he had satisfied himself. When he assured me through my tears that it was normal.

He said beautiful girls, good girls don’t tell when they’ve had sex. 

I was a beautiful, good girl - wasn’t I?

But I did say something. I was 10 the first time anyone asked me what I was wearing. When I was told not to flaunt myself if I didn’t want men to take advantage. That it was my fault. That it was shameful for me to have enticed the attack with my prepubescent body. That I was ugly and that everyone would know I’d been touched.

——

“You are so beautiful” he said as he clumsily fondled my newly developed breasts. I was 13 and grown up. he told me he loved me and I believed him. I believed him when he said I was pretty. 

It was quick and clumsy and disappointing. 

The next day, I wasn’t beautiful anymore. I was a whore. I was a dog. A bitch slut unworthy of kindness. Everyone knew his story. No one cared about mine. They barked at me in the halls and shoved dog treats and dog food in my locker. On Valentine’s Day, they taped cardboard to my locker to tell me Dogs don’t get valentines cards, because dogs can’t read.

I cut off all of my hair. I dressed to hide my frame. I dieted and exercised religiously to keep my weight under 100lbs (on a 5’10” frame). I did everything but I was always ugly.

——

When I was 18, the two men who followed me home, who pulled me into a dark corner behind the movie theater on base, they said I was beautiful too as they forced me to the ground. So beautiful. Too beautiful. 

The police, they asked what I was wearing. Why I was walking home alone at night. Why I didn’t fight back harder or scream more. They said beautiful women should expect these things and take better care. That it was my fault. That by virtue of looking like me, I deserved to be assaulted. That I must have hinted I wanted it. 

Because that’s what beautiful girls do - they attract and reel men into acting on their inclinations. Then they call it rape. 

——

He told me I was the most beautiful, wonderful woman he’d ever met. He told me he would love me forever. I married him. We had a baby and a life together. I was beautiful - until I wasn’t anymore. Until he found someone else who was more beautiful. 

Then I was fat and ugly. I was no longer desirable. He no longer wanted to touch me. 

So i left.

——

He said I was beautiful until I turned his offer of drinks down.

He said I was beautiful until I couldn’t afford to support his bad habits.

He said I was beautiful until I refused to have sex with him.

He said I was beautiful until...

——

Now when he says I am beautiful, I am wary. When he tells me I am stunning, I wonder how long it will be before I am ugly to him. I wonder what he wants and what he will do if I don’t give it to him.

I wonder how cruel his verbal attacks will be when he doesn’t get what he wants or doesn’t want what I have to offer anymore. 

 Will I morph into a horrifying hag unworthy of affection or kindness again? Will he try to break me again before he leaves? Will he attack and insult and demean?

Because when he says I am beautiful, he doesn’t mean it. I know that now.

I know I am beautiful to me. I know I shine with an unfailing light. That I am strong, smart, and beautiful no matter what I weigh. No matter how I style my hair. No matter who I choose to have sex with or date or how I choose to travel. I am confident in myself. I know what I look like. 

I can tell myself that I am beautiful and believe it because I want nothing more from myself than I already give. 

But don’t try to convince me you agree. 

Don’t tell me I am beautiful. 

Because I’ll never believe you mean it. 

Don’t tell me I am beautiful.