Perspective

Oh my god I was so freaking beautiful in my 20s and 30s.  Like a Celtic model.  At least in comparison to how I look now.  So fat.  So tired.  So worn.

Did I have any clue how lovely I was, how radiant, how lovable even?

Did I love myself enough to see?

I don’t remember thinking that way — most of the time, anyway.  And now I feel the same way about my body: I just see all the faults.  Age spots everywhere (my dermatologist calls them “wisdom” spots!), moles, stretch marks, wrinkles, leathery neck skin, and the most bottom-heavy little pear shape you ever saw.

How is it I’m happier now than back then, most days?

And so how can I not practice self-care enough to lose this weight and look at least a little bit like that beautiful old (young!) me?

And how VERY much I wish that beautiful young woman had known what was what, and who was who, and how to be.  To escape from all that shame, from all those people, and to venture forth securely into the world just being myself.

I think I know the answer.  It’s that I feel so alone and unsupported.  I TRY not to, really I do, and my dear friends do their best to prop me up.  And they’re wonderful friends.  But when your first abusers are your parents, it’s hard to feel like anyone cares or is willing to help you with the courage, the encouragement that is so vital.  

I saw a photo of a friend helping her darling daughter get dressed for a special event.  I wanted to cry.

I played with the Philadelphia Orchestra and my mother didn’t take pictures.  To be fair, she did go shopping with me for the dress.  

It’s a complain-y, cold, rainy day.  It would be nice if I were more aware of the fact that I am happy.

I am happy.

Happy I am.  

Maybe?

I am loved.

As are you.

Peace to you!