I WANT ME BACK

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

And sometimes I stare at that woman for a little too long. Because I remember her.

God, I remember her. She was loud. She was ridiculous.

She laughed with her whole body. She talked with her hands.

She wore jeans without wondering whether somebody would approve.

She wore perfume because she liked smelling good.

She put on makeup because sometimes she simply enjoyed being pretty.

Her hair was hers. Her clothes were hers. Her opinions were hers.

Her laughter was hers. 

She didn't enter a room and immediately scan the faces around her to calculate how much of herself she was allowed to bring inside.

She just walked in. And existed.  Freely.

Then I look at the woman I became after I got married.

And sometimes I wonder Where did you go?

Because I don't recognize her. Not completely.

I know her face. I lived inside her.  But I don't recognize the way she slowly disappeared.

It didn't happen all at once. There was no dramatic goodbye.

No final night where I packed my personality into a suitcase and left it by the door.

It happened quietly. Almost politely. A little piece here.

Another piece there. My hair grew long because he liked it that way.

Makeup disappeared because he didn't like it. Perfume disappeared too.

Jeans stayed in the closet. Things I liked became things I could live without.

And somehow, I kept calling that love.

Then came the words: “Behave more.”

Two little words. Almost harmless. Almost innocent.

Unless you were the woman hearing them. Because I knew what they meant.

Be quieter. Be less loud. Less playful. 

Less expressive. Less emotional. Less spontaneous.

Don't joke so much. Don't react so much. Watch your tone.

Watch your volume. Watch your face.

Think before you speak. Think before you laugh. Think before you become too much. 

And slowly be less Dika.

So I became good at it. God, I became fucking excellent at it.

I learned to catch my own laughter before it became too loud.

I learned to swallow jokes before they reached my mouth.

I learned to edit sentences while I was still speaking them.

I learned to watch his face.

His mood. His silence. His reaction.

I learned to walk into a room and wonder which version of myself would cause the least disturbance.

I didn't realize it then but I was becoming a ghost while still alive.

A quieter version. A softer version. A more convenient version.

A version with the edges sanded down until there was nothing left sharp enough to hurt anyone.

Except me. And isn't that the fucking irony?

I was so busy making sure I wasn't too much for someone else that I became too little for myself.

Sometimes I think about all those tiny things I surrendered.

A pair of jeans. A bottle of perfume. A little makeup. A few inches of hair. 

A joke. A laugh. An opinion. A reaction. A piece of my personality.

Nothing dramatic. Nothing worth fighting over. Right?

That's how it works.

Self-abandonment rarely arrives carrying a suitcase and announcing: “Hello. I'm here to destroy your identity.”

No. It arrives disguised as compromise.

It whispers: It's not a big deal. Just this once. He doesn't like it.

Keep the peace. Don't make this into an issue. And you keep saying yes.

Until one day you look into the mirror and realize you've spent years saying “it's not a big deal” about yourself.

And suddenly it is.

Because I didn't lose myself in one great tragedy.

I lost myself in teaspoons. A little every day. 

Until one morning there wasn't enough left to recognize.

And the saddest part? I don't hate the woman who let it happen.

How could I? She was trying to save something.  She loved someone.

She wanted her marriage to work. She thought love meant meeting someone halfway.

She just didn't notice that she had been walking toward the middle while the other person had stopped moving. 

And eventually she was standing there alone, still waiting. Still adjusting.

Still thinking:  Maybe if I become easier to love, this will feel like love again.

Fuck. That sentence hurts. Because I know better now.

Love should never require you to slowly disappear.

Compromise should not mean one person keeps becoming smaller while the other remains exactly the same size.

And peace shouldn't require you to live on tiptoe.

So no. I don't actually want the old Dika back.

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

She didn't know that love without room to be yourself can become a very beautiful prison.

She didn't know that you can spend years trying to be someone's peace

while quietly becoming your own war.

She didn't know the difference between compromise and disappearance.

I do. Now. And I want something different.

I want healed Dika. Not the woman I was before him.

The woman who survived becoming someone else.

The woman who remembers. The woman who takes back what was hers.

My laughter. Mine.

My loudness. Mine.

My ridiculousness. unfortunately, still very much mine.

My jeans? Coming home.

My perfume? Also coming home.

My makeup. My hair. My opinions. 

My voice. My fucking personality. All of it. I'm taking it back.

Not for revenge. Not so anyone notices.

Not so someone looks at me and thinks, Oh, look at her now.

No.

I don't need an audience. I don't need an explanation.

And I certainly don't need permission.

If I cut my hair, it will be because I want short hair.

If I wear jeans, it's because I like jeans.

If I wear perfume, it's because I like smelling good.

If I put on makeup, it's because sometimes I like the woman staring back at me when I do.

And if I laugh too loudly? Well. Apparently that's still a thing. Tragic. 

Someone may have to survive it.

Because I'm done treating my personality like a volume knob someone else gets to control.

I'm done rehearsing myself. I'm done shrinking before anyone even asks me to.

I'm done walking into rooms wondering: “How much of me is acceptable here?”

All of me. That's the answer.

All of me. And maybe that's what healing actually looks like.

Not becoming the woman I was before. But meeting her again, taking her hand, and telling her: “I'm sorry I left you there so long.”

Because I miss her.

I miss the girl who laughed without permission.

The woman who wore what she liked. The woman who could be ridiculous without apologizing.

The woman who didn't mistake silence for peace.

The woman who didn't confuse being easy to live with being loved.

I miss her terribly. But I don't want to resurrect her.

I want to carry her forward. With everything I know now.

With every scar. Every lesson. Every boundary.

Every piece of wisdom I had to bleed for.

I want her joy but with my boundaries.

Her softness but with my spine.

Her spontaneity but with my discernment.

Her loudness without the apology.

I want the woman in the old photographs, but I want her wiser.

Harder to manipulate. Harder to silence. Harder to make disappear.

I want a woman who can look someone in the eyes and say:

**“You don't have to like every part of me.

But I will not destroy those parts just to keep you comfortable.”**

And maybe that's the woman I've been looking for.

Maybe she was never gone.

Maybe she was buried under years of be quieter, don't do that, don't wear this, don't say that, behave more.

Maybe she was just waiting.

Waiting for me to finally become tired of being a version of myself designed for somebody else's comfort.

Well. I'm tired. So I'm coming back. Not backwards.

Back to myself. And when I finally look into the mirror and recognize her again,

I don't think I'll say, There she is.

I think I'll say: “Oh, bitch. There you are. I've been looking everywhere for you.”

And then I'll put on the jeans. Wear the perfume.

Fix my hair however the hell I want. Laugh too loudly. Talk too much.

Take up space. 

And walk away from anyone who makes me feel like I need to apologize for existing.

Because I'm done tiptoeing. I'm done shrinking. I'm done disappearing.

I spent years becoming someone else.

I think I've earned the right to become myself again.