I Want My Old Self Back

Lately, I've been looking at old photos of myself.

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

Because I remember her. Or at least, I think I do.

She was lively.  Cheerful. A little loud. A little ridiculous.

She laughed easily. She talked freely. She wore what she liked. 

She didn't spend half her brain calculating whether someone else was going to be annoyed by her existence.

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

And I don't quite recognize her. Somewhere along the way, I started changing things.

My hair. I grew it long because he liked it that way.

Makeup. I stopped wearing it whenever we went out because he didn't like it.

Perfume. I stopped wearing that in public too.

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

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

So I learned to tone myself down. Be quieter. Be more careful.

Think before speaking. Watch my reactions. Watch my jokes.

Watch my volume. Watch myself. 

Basically, become a human version of: “Will this annoy him?”

And maybe that's the part that hurts the most.

Because I thought I was compromising.

I thought this was what people did when they loved someone.

You adjust. You accommodate. You meet halfway. You make little sacrifices.

And individually, none of those things seemed important enough to fight about.

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

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

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

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

And suddenly it is. 

Because somewhere between all those tiny compromises, I lost pieces of myself.

Maybe not completely. But enough that I don't recognize the woman I became.

And the irony? I spent so much time trying to make myself comfortable for someone else...

only to eventually become uncomfortable inside my own skin.

I don't blame the woman I was. She was trying.

She loved someone. She wanted her marriage to work.

She thought compromising was part of loving another person.

And maybe it is. But compromise is supposed to have a limit.

You shouldn't have to keep handing over pieces of yourself until there isn't much left to negotiate.

And maybe that's what I'm finally understanding now.

I don't want revenge. I don't want to prove anything.

I don't want him to see me suddenly wearing jeans and think,

“Oh, look what she's doing now.”

Frankly, 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 be spontaneous.

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

Maybe I want to be the woman who walks into a room without immediately checking whether someone is comfortable with her being herself.

Because I miss her. I miss Dika.

Not the wife. Not the estranged wife.

Not the woman who spent years trying to become easier to love.

Dika.

The woman before all the adjustments. The woman who didn't tiptoe.

The woman who didn't need permission to be cheerful.

The woman who could wear jeans without wondering if someone approved.

The woman who could put on perfume simply because she liked the smell.

The woman who could look in the mirror and recognize herself.

I don't know if I can get that exact woman back.

Maybe I shouldn't. 

I've lived too much since then. I've learned too much.

I've been hurt too much. I've survived too much.

But maybe I can bring her forward with me.

Take her laughter. Her confidence. Her ridiculousness.

Her opinions. Her clothes. Her perfume. Her hair. Her fucking jeans.

And combine them with everything I've learned since.

Maybe that's what this next chapter is really about.

Not becoming someone new. Becoming myself again.

Except this time, I'm keeping the parts that I gave away too easily.

And if someone comes into my life someday and doesn't like my hair? Okay.

If he doesn't like my jeans? Tragic.

If he thinks I'm too loud? He'll survive.

If he thinks I should “behave more”? He can respectfully exit stage left.

Because I've already spent enough years learning how to make myself smaller.

I'm not doing that again. I don't want to be someone's carefully edited version of a woman.

I want to be mine. 

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

The old Dika. Not exactly the same. Not untouched. Not naive.

But alive. Loud. Cheerful. A little ridiculous. Wearing jeans. Smelling like perfume.

Hair exactly the way she wants it.

And finally— not tiptoeing around anyone.