I Want The Healed Dika

And now I think I finally understand something: I don't actually want the old Dika back.

Not exactly. I don't want to go backward.

I don't want the version of me who thought love meant endlessly adjusting herself. 

I don't want to unlearn what these years taught me about boundaries, self-respect, and what happens when keeping the peace starts requiring you to disappear.

I want healed Dika.

The Dika who remembers the old version of herself and says: “Oh. There you are. I missed you.”

I want her laughter back. Her ridiculousness. Her confidence. 

Her jeans. Her perfume. Her makeup. Her hair. Her opinions. Her voice.

But this time, I want all of that joy with the wisdom I didn't have before.

I want to be able to ask myself: “Do I actually want to change this, or am I afraid of someone's reaction?”

Because there's a difference between compromise and self-erasure.

Compromise leaves room for both people to exist.

Self-erasure leaves one person comfortable and the other one slowly disappearing.

I'm done with that. I don't want revenge. I don't want to prove anything.

I don't want him to see me wearing jeans and think, “Oh, look what she's doing now.”

Honestly? He can think whatever he wants.

I want the jeans because I like jeans.

I want perfume because I like smelling good.

I want makeup because sometimes I like seeing myself made up.

I want my hair however the hell I want it. And maybe I want to laugh loudly again.

Maybe I want to be silly. Maybe I want to talk too much.

Maybe I want to stop measuring every word before it leaves my mouth.

Maybe I want to walk into a room without checking whether everyone is comfortable with me being myself.

Because I miss her. I miss Dika. But I'm not trying to resurrect the past.

I'm trying to reclaim what was mine.

That's the difference. I don't need to become who I was before him.

I need to become the woman I would have been if I had never abandoned herself for anyone.

Maybe one day I'll look into the mirror and suddenly think: There she is.

Not the old Dika. Not the wife. Not the estranged wife.

Not someone's carefully edited version of a woman.

Me.

A little older. A little wiser. A little scarred. Still loud.

Still cheerful. Still ridiculous.

Wearing jeans. Smelling like perfume. Hair exactly the way I want it.

And finally— not tiptoeing around anyone.