Tell Me You Love Me—Living With The Need For Constant Reassurance

I am sitting alone at Starbucks. Wait, no, not Starbucks, that’s a little silly…a

bar. Yeah, a bar. I am sitting alone at a bar. The lights are dim, the chatter is

relatively low-volume, and I am waiting for a friend of mine. She’s a little late; I’m a

little early—something I only am if the promise of alcohol is involved, usually. I

stare down at my drink, dumbly mesmerized by the reflection of the bar lamps in

the ice cubes. I glance inadvertently (hopefully) to my left and then again to my

right. There are quite a few men at this particular bar. None of them seem to have

taken an interest in me, though, or even looked in my direction that I’ve noticed. I

immediately move my hands down to my lap. I pull up my jeans a little, I pull down

my shirt a bit, and try to sit up straight. I try to keep my shoulders back and my

stomach tucked in. I am so fucking uncomfortable.

I glance around again—still no one seems to even really notice me. At this

point, I get really worried. I run my fingers through my hair, I flip it over one of my

shoulders, I try to tousle it gently so it has some volume. Or maybe there’s

something wrong with my face. I quickly grab my little compact mirror out of my

bag and study myself. My drink is forgotten; it takes a lot for me to forget about a

beverage. It takes a lot for me to forget about alcohol.

I scrutinize my reflection. There’s nothing egregiously horrendous on my

face. My makeup is in tact (I mean, it should be, I only just left the house.) So why

wasn’t anyone looking at me? I must not be as pretty tonight as I had thought, oh it

must be one of my ugly nights. Suddenly, I just want to go home.

Before I had left for the night, when I was getting ready, doing my hair,

brushing on my eyelashes, painting my lips and cheeks, I stood on my toilet in front

of the mirror (you know, so I could see my entire body). I looked at myself up and

down, from my box-dyed locks all the way down to my trying-to-learn-how-to-

wear-girly-shoes blistered heels. I thought I looked decent enough, even sort of

attractive maybe, but what I thought about myself didn’t matter. What I think about

myself doesn’t matter.

I took a few pictures, from different angles, in a few different lights, in a

couple different rooms in my apartment. I want to send them out to see what other

people have to say. I send one to my mom, one to my boyfriend, a few to my group

chats with my best friends, one to my aunt, and so on. I know what people will say. I

know my mom, I know my boyfriend, I know my best friends. They’ll tell me I look

beautiful, my mom will say she misses me, my boyfriend will call me his gorgeous

girl, my best friends will call me sexy and rambunctiously hit on me through the

phone. I need to see it, though; I need to read those words. I know what they will all

say and I need them to say it. Then I can venture out with the confidence to pull me

through at least a couple hours.

Back at the bar, I really want someone to compliment me. Guy, girl, I don’t

care. I will brush it off, I will roll my eyes like I’m too modest and busy and

intelligent to care about such mindless things as aesthetic appeal. Then I will feel

prettier. It isn’t enough for me to go into the bathroom, take a good look at myself in

the fingerprint-stained, reflective piece of life-ruining décor and tell myself I look

good. Tell myself my hair looks nice, my eyes are very bright, my smile is just so

inviting. It doesn’t matter what I tell myself.

I’m laying in bed, reading a book, and the most wonderfully funny thought

crosses my mind. It’s a joke, it’s clever, and boy, am I proud of myself for coming up

with it. I text it to a few of my friends, to be sure it’s actually funny. After all, I can’t

really know if it was until I hear it from then. I mean, I think it’s pretty damn

hilarious—and so witty! But it doesn’t matter what I think.

I have been working really hard to try to independently stay on top of things.

I took a pay cut with my new job, I still have to work sometimes at my old job, but I

haven’t had to ask for help…yet. I feel proud of myself. I feel driven, I feel ambitious,

I feel strong. But it doesn’t make a difference until someone tells me. Until I’m told I

am driven, until I told I am ambitious, until I am told I am strong. Sure, I’m pretty

sure I feel it. But it doesn’t matter what I feel.

I write things and I usually like them. I usually read them back to myself and

feel connected to my words, to my thoughts, I feel like I expressed everything in my

mind. I feel smart. But I need you to read this and tell me that you like it. That you

feel connected to my words, that I expressed myself well. I need you to read this and

tell me I’m smart. So I can be closer to believing it. I’m almost positive it’s true. It

doesn’t matter what I’m almost positive about.

If a friend sends me a picture, asks me if she (I’m going to go with that

pronoun for what should be obvious reasons) looks OK, comes to me worried about

whether she is good enough for something, bright enough for something, pretty

enough for someone, I will always respond…vehemently. I will tell her she looks

stunning, I will hold her hand and tell her she is good enough, bright enough, pretty

enough for anything and anyone. And I mean it. But it doesn’t matter if I mean it, I

know she needs to hear it. So she, like I, can get closer to believing it.

I walk rapidly through life not sure of myself until someone else reassures.

Not confident in myself until someone else reaffirms. Not trusting myself until

someone else promises. Bouncing from one person’s comments to another person’s

compliments, trying to run into myself at some point. Trying to discover that

ultimate, peaceful calm that will render it unnecessary to ask for a second opinion.

Until then, just tell me I’m pretty, tell me I’m smart, tell me I’m funny. Just tell me

you love me.