Chapter 1: The Weight of Compliments

The journey through insecurity is fraught with pitfalls and hidden dangers. It can quickly turn overwhelming.

Here's a simple image of me. I chose to present it that way intentionally. I consider myself to be one of the most insecure individuals you might encounter. When men call me pretty or beautiful (though I detest being called cute), I often question their motives. I can't help but think they must want something from me.

When compliments come from someone I love and trust, I find myself in a whirlwind of confusion. Why do they always focus on my appearance? Is that the only aspect they value? Conversely, if they praise my intelligence or kindness, I wonder why they didn't mention my looks. This creates a no-win situation for those around me.

If you tell an insecure person they are beautiful, they doubt your sincerity and assume that's all you see in them. On the other hand, if you compliment their talents or intelligence, they may think you don't find them attractive. Throughout my life, I’ve been told I was worthless, and those negative messages are far too easy to believe.

Most of the compliments I receive pertain to my appearance, leaving me at a loss for how to respond. Recently, I was advised to simply say, "Thank you," so that has become my default response. I struggle to view myself as others do, but I recognize that accepting compliments might be a skill I can develop. However, quieting my mind is another challenge entirely.

I have a peculiar relationship with writers; I avoid dating them. My insecurity is intertwined with a fierce competitiveness. While competition often leads to victory, for someone like me, a win can feel monumental. Yet, a loss can be utterly devastating.

Much of my writing on Medium diverges from my true passion, which lies in fiction, animal education, and my aspiration to write a memoir. For a significant part of my life, my writing was a private endeavor—something I expressed in solitude, hidden from the eyes of others. After experiencing trauma, I turned to fiction as an outlet, allowing me to rewrite my narrative. If I wished for a heroic intervention, like a dragon swooping in to save the day, I could create that in my stories.

Though I don't write fantasy, the ability to reshape my reality through writing provided me solace. I began to perceive the label "writer" as a part of my identity rather than merely a title. I could see stories everywhere—in the people I encountered, in the mundane details of life. Yet, many of these tales were often tinged with darkness.

As I began to share my passion for writing, I still kept my works concealed. It was a facet of myself that others had to accept without tangible proof. The thought of exposing my writing to a wider audience was daunting; the fear of negative feedback loomed large. When I received positive responses, it was a revelation. People began to appreciate my work, follow me, and subscribe to my writing. For the first time, compliments felt meaningful.

The recognition I received encouraged me, prompting me to think that my writing was worthy of a broader audience. I was welcomed into some of Medium's most prestigious publications, known for their high standards. This newfound affirmation gave rise to a burgeoning ego; yet, deep down, my insecurities remained. Each submission to a publication came with anxiety over potential criticism. I often flouted grammar rules, as my writing style is conversational—designed to feel like a dialogue rather than a formal essay.

People responded positively to my writing, and many pieces were accepted without heavy editing. I felt elated, convinced I had discovered something I excelled at. Throughout my life, I had been acknowledged for my talents, but writing was different; it was not accompanied by pain or pressure. The idea of publishing my memoir began to seem attainable.

However, the thought of facing rejection in the publishing world terrified me. It’s a peculiar contradiction to recognize that rejection is inevitable while simultaneously being deeply insecure—knowing that a single "no" could send me spiraling into self-doubt. Despite my fears, I was determined to avoid self-publishing. I craved validation through the acceptance of traditional publishing.

The encouragement I received on Medium fortified my resolve. Then, I fell in love with a writer whose talent astounded me. His eloquence and fluidity in prose made me feel dwarfed by his ability. The pedestal I had been placed on began to wobble under the weight of his skill, and I found myself sending him my writings, hoping for validation.

While he often praised my bravery in sharing my story, I longed for acknowledgment of my talent. Our writing styles differed significantly, but I was captivated by his work and made sure to express my admiration. I silently wished he would affirm my abilities too.

He frequently compliments my appearance, which I accept, but I yearn for him to recognize my writing talents. His silence regarding my work leads me to believe he might think I lack skill. I keep my other talents hidden, like singing, despite having shared my past experiences with a band in Manhattan. The thought of performing for him terrifies me; I dread the idea of revealing another skill only to face silence.

Silence is suffocating for me, filling my thoughts with self-doubt. I find myself imagining what he might be thinking. Perhaps he avoids commenting because he believes if he has nothing kind to say, it’s better to say nothing at all.

His lack of feedback can be interpreted in many ways. He could think I’m talented but simply be too busy to express it. However, insecurity thrives in silence, leading me to feel like I’m drowning.

Ultimately, I am one of the most insecure individuals you could meet. I grapple with the suffocating weight of silence, which amplifies my self-critical thoughts. Even if he were to compliment my talents, I question whether I would believe him.

But at least he finds me beautiful.