"You're not pretty enough" is basically a compliment

Recently, someone very close to me told me I was “not pretty enough.” Now, I can't go into detail about the circumstances or the situation, but I want to make two things clear: One, I hold no grudge against the person who made that statement. They were in an unhealthy, unsafe mental place and what they said had no more meaning that what's said when someone is drop-dead drunk. Two, I agree with them. I'd even go a little further in that statement.

I am not pretty at all.

Before you go to rant at me about anything, please hear me out. Look at that definition.

I am not delicate. I am short and stocky: five-two and fluctuating between 150 and 160 pounds. I wear a US size 13/14 jeans most of the time (though some 12s fit, and some do not). My hips measure 40” and my bust is a 38. I don't even care to know my waist number, to be quite honest.

Even if I weighed less, I would never be thin, not really. My hips are too wide. My legs have too much muscle. My thighs will always touch, regardless of my weight—they curve that way, the same way that my knees knock together and make my clumsy. It's just the way I'm built. I will never look delicate, and if I'm healthy and taking care of myself, I will never be delicate. To be delicate would mean that something was wrong with me—in my case, with my build and my health needs, to be or look delicate would most likely mean I was terminally ill or had an eating disorder, neither of which, I hope, ever comes to pass.

I'm also not traditionally attractive. Like I said, I'm short. I'm overweight—maybe not fat, but heavy, yes. My nose is long and hookish. My face is prone to acne and is always too red. I wear glasses because I don't like the effort of contacts every day. There's a bend—almost a hump, really—at the top of my spine. My shoulders slope. My stomach—already big—has extremely evident red and pink stretch marks, to the point where, when people see them for the first time, they tend to ask if I've hurt myself.

My hair, dyed (imperfectly, I might add) green and blue in places, is curly, frizzy, and unruly to the extreme. My nails are bitten and I very rarely wear makeup. When I do indulge in lipstick and eyeshadow, my philosophy is “the more and brighter the color, the happier I am,” which has led people to snicker about me being a clown behind my back. I tend to lean to the hippie side of things, and while I shave, I don't do it often—not my legs, my underarms, or other places. I don't shower every day or even every other day, and I'm not ashamed to admit it. I'm really not.

But wait for a second, please. I have another definition for you.

I've pretty much already been over the first definition; I've long since accepted the fact that I'm not very pleasing to most people's senses. That's fine. That's honestly and truly okay. It's the second definition that I'm interested in.

Look at the definition of pretty again for me. It's a purely aesthetic thing, and it falls short of being beautiful for that very reason. No, I am not pretty, but, contrary to the popular use of the term, pretty is not a lesser-level term that precedes beauty. I can be beautiful without ever even touching pretty.

I'm not saying that I am beautiful. I don't think I can see myself that highly, even in moments like this. What I'm saying is, I can make my goal to be beautiful, to be excellent, without ever once aiming to be attractive of aesthetically pleasing. Yes, I'm short and heavy. Yes, I look even more Jewish than I am. Yes, I eat more than I should and exercise less. But, as much as those things may or may not be good things, I am still more than that. I am a writer. I'm a photographer. I'm a dabbler in most other arts. I am a friend, a sister, a daughter, a confidant. I try and help people. I am a part of this world and this Universe.

If I ever am truly beautiful, it will be those things that make me so. Not my appearance, and certainly not other people's perception of it.

If anyone tells me in the future that I'm “not pretty enough,” my first question will be, “Pretty enough for what? To be found attractive? Good. Start looking past that, and onto the rest of me. Onto the part that matters.”

Which, I can say for certain, is more apt to be found in my head or my heart than on the outside of my very flawed, very un-pretty body.

What not to believe when speaking to Death through the airwaves.

Ah, who are you

who comes creeping up behind me in the dark,

sending your tiny fists against my back? Who sent you?

Who called for you? Leave this place—I have work to do,

and I work alone. Step back!

What I have in my hands doesn't concern you.

What do you care for its cries? I'm leaving you

in its favor. Don't try to look—

I promise you, you won't like what you see. This thing

is too broken; see the blood staining my fingers? No,

it wasn't my doing—I found it like this, I promise you.

I'm only trying to help.

Keep your mouth shut!

Nothing you can say will help it. Only I can do this.

Do not reason with me. I cannot be swayed.

So what if this beautiful thing twined between my fingers

is a soul?

Do not call for it. Do not reach for it.

Above all, do not love it in its suffering,

for it will not—it cannot—

love you in return.

Now, I really must be going,

I have a soul to—what!

Tell me, did you see where it went?

And what is that beautiful glow in your hands,

flowing up your arms

to touch your heart?

Six ways to understand that the one you love cannot love you in return:

Do not be angry. Your anger will only burn your skin as it spills from every pore, to scald your nerves and make you numb. And while numbness may seem tempting, it will only be a prison for you, in the end, when all you want is to feel the touch of another person's heart, and you cannot.

Do not blame their actions on their sickness. Everyone in this world has been sick, in one way or another, and everyone who is heartsick can get well. Being sick or wounded is not an invalidation for their actions, and while there are things that may creep into their veins like stone and make them heavy, this is not their death warrant. This is not anyone's promised doom--not theirs, and not yours.

Be hopeful for them. If they are low, and they are winded with the effort of keeping themselves going, they likely don't have the energy they need to hope for themselves. Send good energy into the world for them, because they need it, and they likely cannot find it.

Don't let their words scar you. If they are angry and confused, they will confront the world with razor blades and fire. Realize that you did not make this happen; that you did not create these things within them. They are struggling, and they are hurt. The things they say and do are not reflections of you, but on them, and on the real and true condition of their soul. Be kind to them in these moments, for their armor is missing and their heart is raw.

Do not try to fix them. Whatever they need, you can't give them. You love them, and in doing so, have done as much as you can. They must do the rest. Your love does them no harm, but it cannot solve the riddles etched on the inside of their skull.

Above all, do not wait for them.  When they heal, they may be different. And though you may love them, they may not ever return your emotions. To wait for them is to imprison yourself. Instead, cut yourself free. Realize that your love is valuable. Remember that it is a beautiful force, and that, while they may not treasure it, someone will, the way you treasure this person now.

Souls do not inseparably bind--and while this person may leave holes, another person will come along bearing patches. And the love you have for them, waiting in the future, in no way diminishes the love you held for this soul who cannot love you back. Remember that--there is always room in your heart for more love. Always.