I Want The Old Dika Back

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

She loved someone. She wanted her marriage to work.

She thought compromising was part of loving another person.

Maybe some of it was.

But compromise is supposed to leave room for both people to remain themselves.

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

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 naive Dika who thought love meant endlessly adjusting herself.

I don't want the Dika who hadn't yet learned what it feels like to disappear inside a relationship.

I don't want to unlearn everything these years taught me.

I want something better. 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 willingness to wear whatever the hell she wants.

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

But I want to bring them forward with everything I've learned.

I want the old Dika's joy with the new Dika's boundaries.

The old Dika's spontaneity with the new Dika's discernment.

The old Dika's softness without the new Dika abandoning herself to keep someone else comfortable.

The old Dika's laughter without the need to check whether anyone approves.

That's the woman I want to become. Not the woman I was before him.

The woman I would have been if I had never abandoned myself for anyone.

There is a difference. 

Old Dika didn't know she needed boundaries. Healed Dika does.

Old Dika thought compromise meant “I'll change this because you don't like it.”

Healed Dika asks: “Is this something I genuinely want to change, or am I afraid of your reaction?”

Old Dika might have mistaken keeping the peace for keeping the relationship healthy.

Healed Dika knows that peace that requires you to disappear isn't peace.

It's self-erasure with good manners. And 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 suddenly 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 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 everyone is comfortable with her being herself.

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 want to become the old Dika again.

I want to become the healed Dika who remembers exactly who she was before she started shrinking— and refuses to shrink again.

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.