"You're a pretty girl you know" I was told, two weekends ago. I paused. For a moment I thought he was speaking to somebody else, somebody behind me. Then I wondered, "what does he want?" failing that, the voice in my head told me. "Eh, he is only telling you that because you're his friend." I smiled awkwardly "...thank you" I replied, practised, having learned to reply gracefully to compliments, while my inside wanted to scream "oh, my hair is a mess, and I'm feeling bloated, and fat and excuse... excuse... excuse." I didn't say anything after that, was left feeling uncomfortable rather than pleased. His compliment had rendered me stressed rather than flattered.
He could tell, he seemed annoyed at me, despite my best thanks, my face, my body language said otherwise. He knew I didn't believe him. I could just as well have called him a liar to his face. An awkward pause fell between us and he eventually changed the subject, but the evening was already ruined for me.
The demons in my head was busy analysing his comment and ripping it apart, searching for his agenda, reminding me of all the people whom had made the counter argument. And the demons were winning.
This is who I am, this is my fight, I'm Bea, I'm 31 and live in England.
Edited by: GIRLCALLEDBOB at: 9/6/2012 (07:57)
"Stressed spelled backwards is desserts. Coincidence? I think not!"
| current weight: 154.0