"gorgeous"
overthinking a compliment (but it's really not so simple)
Someone called me “gorgeous” the other day.
And they weren’t, like, hitting on me or anything. It seemed like a heartfelt compliment, and it was really nice.
But it called to mind an exchange I had with my person (I’m refusing to call them “my ex-person,” but ugh 💔) back in the spring, which marked a moment for me when the dynamic between us started a slow but natural shift, a deepening.
It was a few days after they had finally left their spouse. We were texting each other over coffee on this particular morning, and they said something innocuous about how the coffee mugs at the Airbnb where they were staying had random inspirational quotes on them.
Me: One of my favorite mugs says Hello Gorgeous! Lol Them: A nice way to wake up Me: Not like anyone else is saying that to me these days I’ll take it from a mug Them: Me too! Me: I’ll call you gorgeous if you want, gorgeous 😜 Nah, that doesn’t really work, does it Them: Oh it works! Me: I have a couple other adjectives in mind for you, lol Them: Besides clueless? Me: 😂 Yes, besides clueless Them: Does it work if I call you gorgeous? Me: Please don’t You’re probably a terrible liar like I am 🙃 Them: I’m a terrible liar too, but I do think you are gorgeous Me [after a bit of a pause]: Um. I think I need to put my glasses on [another pause] Well congratulations I don’t have a comeback for that one Them: Lol Me: I should probably say thank you, but I still don’t believe you Them: You don’t have to thank me but you should believe me Me: [short pause] Oh that’s just the kundalini awakening… 🤣🤣🤣 There, I recovered 🙃
Side note: My person used to tell me I was super funny. I kind of lost my filter after being cold-turkeyed off of the antispychotic I had been taking for 16 years. And while my inability to manage my mouth now has created all kinds of problems for me, I must say that I do enjoy cracking people up with the ridiculous things that come out of it sometimes…
Okay, so I can’t take a compliment. (And if you’ve never heard of a Kundalini awakening, you’re in for a treat. To be continued!)
But I have always suffered from low self-esteem in the looks department, even back when I looked more, um… (I was about to type, “normal”). Back before I started going off the meds, when I was able to mask my neurodivergent weirdness more effectively, and pass for straight.
But I walked away from that little exchange with my person feeling pretty damn perplexed. Were they flirting with me? Oh shit––did I start it? (This is an all-too-common struggle for autistics, apparently.) Or if they were being serious, what did they mean by “gorgeous”? (Another common struggle, because neurotypicals really are impossible to figure out so much of the time.)
It was the start of a semi-constant stream of mixed messages about the nature of their attraction to me. Because a few weeks later, as the odd, mostly-platonic hugging and cuddling sessions that came to define our relationship continued, they made a point of telling me that they didn’t feel chemistry with me, “in that way.” And that was hard to hear––not to mention confusing as hell––but I just thought to myself, that’s OK, because I can wait. Wait for what, exactly, I had no idea. But I wasn’t in a rush for their feelings to catch up with mine, for them to see what I could see, feel what I was finally letting myself feel…
But then what did it mean––when they said they thought I was “gorgeous”?
Complicating this question further is the fact that in the three or so years since I started the process of going off multiple classes of psych meds, my physical appearance has undergone a dramatic and somewhat inexplicable transformation. For one thing, I’ve dropped over 100 pounds––much of that in the last year. It definitely needed to happen, because I had of course gained all that weight over three decades (thanks, antidepressants!) and my metabolic health was tanking rapidly. But in the end, after struggling with my weight for so long, the pounds finally started coming off as I reduced and discontinued the different meds. (Well, okay––I did clean up my diet in an effort to combat the Effexor withdrawal symptoms, but the purpose was never weight loss. And now the number on the scale just keeps going down, no matter what I do.)
And there were other changes: one day two years ago, I just said fuck it and gave up on hiding the patchy hair loss I’ve experienced over the years. I shave my head every 1-2 weeks now and mostly don’t care what people think anymore... Then there was the makeup: whereas I had always preferred a more minimalist or “natural” look, suddenly I wasn’t leaving the house without tons of liquid eyeliner and dark lipstick. My tastes in clothing and accessories also changed: the understated, feminine styles that defined my look for most of my adult life gave way to a mix of comfort and statement pieces. If it’s over the top, if it’s borderline ugly, if it’s loud or bright or chunky or shiny or some unusual material or texture… I’ll probably love it.
By the time my person and I discovered that we had 30+ years of psychiatrization in common, my physical appearance had become less about trying to look “attractive” and more about authentic self-expression. And fun. I could tell people noticed me when I walked into a room. I kind of liked it.
Then I looked around one day and realized that pretty much everyone around me just kind of assumed I was a lesbian (which I think I am and have always been, except the meds seriously screwed up my development in that department, and I thus attempted to perform heteronormativity for most of my life). Or maybe some of them thought I was about to come out as enby or trans (which I’m not planning on doing––not that there’s anything wrong with either of those things, but like, can’t a chick just be semi-bald without people giving her funny looks or asking awkward questions? Geez 🤣).
But the somewhat unsettling part about all of these changes is that none of them were made in a terribly conscious way on my part. They all just kind of… happened. Throughout the exact same time frame that I was coming off the meds. And now I’m nearly unrecognizable to people who knew me before. Unrecognizable even to myself, every time I look in the mirror.
I can’t help but wonder: is this all some natural metamorphosis? Am I simply becoming the person I would have been, had it not been for the misdiagnosis (“depression”) and the Prozac they put me on at age 16?
This person I am becoming––who is she? When will I know I’m finished evolving into her?
Is she “gorgeous”?
And does she believe it?
