Just take the compliment

Learning to trust other people's kind words.

I make a face at my reflection in the mirror carefully propped up against my office wall. My hopes were high for the pants I’m reviewing for a freelance assignment, but now I feel silly. I'd torn the package open minutes earlier. Much to my disappointment, they fit but aren’t what I envisioned. The jeans are well-made, but I don’t like how my stomach looks, which is one of my biggest insecurities. Whatever. You win some, you lose some. My husband walks into the room as I start to unzip the pants. “Wow,” he says. “You look amazing.”

“Well, you’re contractually obligated to say that,” I snap at him. My quip comes out harsher than intended. His face falls slightly — if I hadn’t known him for fifteen years, I wouldn’t have noticed a difference — and he heads downstairs. My stomach aches. Why do his compliments annoy me so much? I root around for a satisfactory answer but cannot find one. The moment passes, and neither of us brings it up again. Still, I’m left wondering how it must feel to be rebuffed whenever you flatter the person you care about most.

The interaction wasn’t an anomaly. For a long, long time — maybe forever? — he’s had to tiptoe before saying a nice thing, risking me accusing him of not meaning it. I am lucky to have someone who loves me so much, but I can’t relinquish the desire to push back anytime he shows affection. If he stopped complimenting me, I wouldn’t blame him, but he insists on continuing, which makes me feel worse.

Months later, I send a writing snippet to some friends, hoping for feedback. The responses are filled with exclamation points and uppercase letters. “This is SO good!!!!” one friend says. Another shares that she can’t wait to read the entire piece. This is great! It should make me feel good. And! Yet! I brush it off. They’re my friends, so they have to be kind to me when I share something vulnerable. They wouldn’t say it sucked, even if it was truly awful. Part of me hopes my editor doesn’t like it just so I can prove them wrong. My commitment to self-sabotaging is as tangible as the couch I'm writing this post from. 

The perfectly fine pants in question.

When someone I don’t know well says something complimentary, I smile. “Thank you!” I say. “That’s very nice of you.” Then, I rush to the next topic. If it’s a friend, I’ll laugh that they’re mentioning it only because they love me, hoping my reaction sounds breezy and my nervous energy isn’t entirely obvious. When my poor husband calls me attractive, I feel weirdly self-conscious. “Would you tell me if I looked bad?” I quiz him. I know it’s a no-win question, but I can’t help but ask. Outwardly, I try my best to accept the words with grace, but internally, it’s always a different story. I barely have time to process good words before the nasty voice in my head speaks up. I try to ignore the things it says, but it’s become one of my closest friends over the years. Breaking up is hard to do.

A go-to reaction.

People cannot be gentle toward me without an ulterior motive. They probably feel bad for me. In the twisted lens through which I view the world, folks treat me well out of obligation. It’s a small way to live, and I’m self-aware enough to recognize that I’m tormenting myself for no reason. Reality warps when those I love most cannot be trusted.

The only people I truly believe are the ones who don’t like me very much.

Two years ago, I wrote my first piece on postpartum psychosis. The response was a writer’s dream — thousands of people read it, and hundreds complimented the article. But there were two comments — just two! — that I internalized. First, someone responded with the yawn emoji. “🥱” was the entire comment. Then another person asked, “Why are we glorifying women who kill their children?” I cannot recite most of the positive things people say, but these two are imprinted on my brain.

When I shared what it was like to lose my first pregnancy, one that I would’ve had to terminate if I hadn’t miscarried naturally, a stranger commented on the Instagram post and said, “Sounds like you just wanted to have an abortion.” I was hurt enough to call the woman out publicly, and she deleted the comment, but the damage was done.

Unfortunately, I tend to take trolls at their word. No need to worry about where their meanness stems from or if they have a twisted reason for flinging hurtful things my way. I believe these strangers hiding behind their keyboards more than the people I’ve known for decades. When you have confidence in those who tell you awful things, it slowly breaks your brain. They clearly see something that no one else can, right? 

And then there’s another problem. When I obsess over the handful of negative responses, I feel guilty for ignoring the other 99 percent. In many ways, I’m wasting the time of the people who bother to say kind things to me. What’s the point of complimenting someone who will dismiss you?

You have to have thick skin if you’re putting yourself out there. That’s what everyone says. But I’ve been writing personal essays for years, and I’ve only become more sensitive, my heart more tender. It probably doesn’t surprise you that even constructive feedback can be hard for me to swallow. When criticized at corporate jobs, I’ve held my tears until I can make it to the bathroom, dabbing my eyes until they’re no longer red. 

If you’re thinking, “Girl, get help” — fair! But I already have the coping mechanisms. Hell, I could probably teach a class on the basics of CBT or DBT myself. I joke that my therapist, who I adore, was probably in middle school when I started counseling thirteen years ago (!). I can identify my many harmful thought patterns and know what you’re supposed to do to fix them. But here’s the problem I always run into and the reason I’ve spent thousands of dollars and hundreds of hours in therapy, graduating again and again before I inevitably return. 

Do I want to get better?

I show my husband the first draft of this piece because he’s the only person I trust to read my work before I edit it. He scans my phone, then pauses before responding. “You’re a really great writer,” he tells me. I instinctively roll my eyes.

He raises an eyebrow.

“I know that this is exactly what I’m talking about,” I say. The irony of the moment isn’t lost on me. I take a second to think about why I waved him off. I’ve been writing professionally since my 18th birthday. It’s a big part of how I make my living. But I recoil when offered a compliment that I should already believe.

And that’s what it comes down to. What do I think about myself? The ugly voice forces suffering on me, and it’s excruciating, but I don’t know that I’m ready for it to shut up. Not yet. One of my therapists once asked me to write down ten things I like about myself. She watched from across the room as I stared at the paper. I picked up my pen when I found a cheat code. Every item on the list started with, “People say that…” I’m funny. I’m talented. I’m good at my job. These aren’t things I like about myself, but things others supposedly like about me. It’s as close as I could get.

As always, I wish I had the answer. I love reading journeys of how people heal themselves — a story that can be packed up and tied with a neat bow. One that makes you envy the other person’s poise. Unfortunately, I’m not great at helping myself with this topic, let alone telling you how to overcome it. All I’ve got is something I want to be true: People are nicer to me than I am to myself, and they aren’t lying out of pity. I throw out compliments like confetti, telling strangers I love their outfits and friends that I admire their bravery. I have no hidden agenda. So why must everyone else? My self-loathing does me no favors.

Sometimes, I wonder if we’re all this cruel to ourselves or if I’m unusual. Self-inflicting pain in vicious ways becomes second nature when you’re dedicated to the task. And to train yourself to flinch at any sign of affection is an easy feat, although a uniquely sad way to navigate the world. I think I want to be done with this. If nothing else, I wish I’d want to. Thirty-one years in, I’m left with no choice but to try, even if I’m not sure I should give it up. For my relationships. For my children. For myself.

I wonder if you can relate if you’re also averse to kindness. Wouldn’t life be easier if we accepted the good? Trusted people when they showed us gentleness? My therapist once told me, “It’s unfair of you to think you know other people’s thoughts better than they do.” I think about that a lot. Assuming all the people who love us don’t make things up for fun, why would we be the exception?

I’m not saying it’s simple — there’s a reason I’ve been fighting this battle for most of my life. But I’m growing tired of doing things this way. Sometimes, when I’m especially self-punishing, my husband will put on a fake menacing voice and say, “HEY! That’s my wife you’re talking about.” It never fails to make me laugh.

So, here’s my goal for myself. The next time someone compliments me on my writing, outfit, parenting, or overall presence, I will do my damndest to make my gratitude genuine, even as my mind shouts a different story. I don’t have to immediately accept what people say, but maybe I could tuck the words away to sit with later instead of tossing them in the trash. And when the next pair of jeans comes in the mail, and my husband shows admiration, I’ll say thank you to him and attempt a smile. 

I might even mean it.