Bring The Old Dika Back

I Want My Old Self Back. Lately, I've been looking at old photos of myself.

And honestly? Who the hell was that woman?

She looked happy. She laughed. She was loud. She was ridiculous.

She wore jeans. She wore perfume. She put on makeup because she felt like it.

Her hair was whatever length she wanted.

She had opinions. She had energy. She existed without constantly checking the room first.

And then I look at photos from the years after I got married.

And I barely recognize her.  Somewhere along the way, I started editing myself.

My hair? Grew it long because he liked it that way.

Makeup? Stopped wearing it in public because he didn't like it.

Perfume? Apparently that was also negotiable.

Jeans? I actually love jeans.

But I stopped wearing them because he didn't like seeing me in them.

And then there was my personality. He told me to “behave more.”

So I did. God, I really did. I became quieter. More careful.

Less spontaneous. I started monitoring my jokes. My volume. 

My reactions. My words. My moods. My existence.

Basically, I turned myself into a walking internal customer-service department:

“Would this version of Dika be acceptable to management?” 😂

Except management apparently wasn't even keeping the company.

What a fucking business model. And the really fucked-up part?

At the time, I thought I was just compromising. 

Because isn't that what you do when you love someone?

You adjust. You accommodate. You pick your battles. You let little things go.

What's the big deal about jeans? What's the big deal about perfume?

What's the big deal about makeup? What's the big deal about hair?

What's the big deal about being a little quieter? Nothing.

Until one day you look in the mirror and realize you've spent years saying “it's not a big deal” about things that were actually pieces of you.

And suddenly it is a very big deal. Because I didn't lose myself in one dramatic moment.

There was no movie scene. No thunder. No background music.

No wise old woman appearing from nowhere saying, “Girl, you're disappearing.”

Nope. Apparently self-erasure comes in installments.

One compromise at a time. Very convenient. Very affordable.

Just pay with little pieces of yourself until you've got nothing left to swipe.

And I don't blame that version of me. She was trying to make her marriage work.

She loved someone. She thought adjusting herself was part of loving him.

Maybe some adjustment is. 

But there is a point where compromise stops being: “We're meeting in the middle.”

And becomes: “Why am I the only one moving?”

That's the part I understand now. I don't actually want the old Dika back.

Because old Dika didn't know what I know now.

She thought love required her to keep shrinking.

She thought keeping someone comfortable was the same thing as keeping a relationship healthy.

She hadn't yet learned that you can be loved and still lose yourself.

So no. I don't want to go backward.

I want healed Dika.

The one who looks at everything she gave away and goes: “Yeah. I'm taking that shit back.”

My laughter? Mine.

My loudness? Mine.

My ridiculousness?  Unfortunately, also mine.

My jeans? Absolutely mine.

My perfume? Mine.

My makeup? Mine.

My hair? Oh, we're definitely having a conversation about that one.

My opinions? Still here.

My voice? Coming back.

And this time, I'm keeping them. Not to make anyone jealous.

Not to send a message. Not so someone can look at me and think, “Wow, she changed.”

Honestly? I don't give a shit.

He can think whatever he wants. He can admire the haircut.

Hate the jeans. Ignore the perfume.

Notice the makeup. Miss the old version. Not notice anything at all.

That's no longer my problem.

I'm not rebuilding myself as a performance for an audience of one.

I'm rebuilding myself because I have to live with me.

And I'd quite like to enjoy her company again. That's the whole point.

I don't need to become the woman I was before him.

I need to become the woman I might have been if I had never learned to confuse love with disappearing.

The woman who can ask herself:**“Do I actually want to change this?

Or am I just afraid of what happens if I don't?”**

That question alone would have saved me years.

But okay. We live. We learn.

We occasionally make spectacularly expensive emotional decisions.

Character development isn't cheap.

And apparently mine came with a fucking subscription plan. Still I'm here.

And I'm starting to recognize little pieces of her again.

The loud one. The silly one. 

The woman who laughs without checking whether someone approves.

The woman who wears what she likes.

The woman who speaks before rehearsing every sentence inside her head.

The woman who doesn't walk on eggshells and call it peace.

I miss her. But maybe she's not gone.

Maybe she's just been waiting for me to stop apologizing for her.

So no. I'm not trying to get the old Dika back.

I'm taking her best parts and leaving the self-abandonment behind.

Because I don't want to be someone's carefully edited version of a wife anymore.

I want to be Dika.

A little older. A little wiser. A little scarred.

Still loud. Still ridiculous. Still capable of making questionable decisions.

But finally wearing the jeans. Wearing the perfume.

Fixing my hair however the hell I want. Laughing too loudly.

Talking too much. Taking up space. 

And most importantly not tiptoeing around anyone.

Turns out the woman I was looking for wasn't missing.

She was just waiting for me to stop asking permission to be her.