Know thyself, Self.
One day, about two years ago, I sat stoically in my therapist’s office. I looked at her, and I said, “I don’t even know who I am.”
It was, perhaps, the second most true sentence that had ever come out of my mouth. Second only to, “I love you,” to my children.
A lot has changed in the last while.
I’ve gotten to know myself.
Turns out, I like to write. I like to take pictures. I like to read. I like to wear pretty things. I like handbags and sparkly makeup. I like to look at craft stores, but I get so overwhelmed at the thought of actually making a project that requires more than four steps, that I just back up and head into the children’s aisle.
I like to try new things.
I like tomatoes and artichokes and avocado. I like sweaters. I like pedicures. I like 80s music. I like most music. I like the mall, for people watching. I like making lists.
I don’t like who I used to be, and I don’t like how I treated people. I don’t like how I allowed myself to be treated.
It’s funny, how time can help me learn to like myself a tiny, almost infinitesimal bit more each day. Gaining hope, gaining strength, gaining weight and standing straighter and taking up my rightful amount of space. I earned it.
I know a little bit more about me. I am sorry, so sorry, for the damage and the wreckage that is my fault over the years. I can only make it better from now on.
And I can know myself enough not to cause more detriment, today.
