“I took care of myself, and it wasn’t beautiful.”

Sitting in my body now, thinking about who I had to be and who I am now, I am struck by many things. The light feels too bright on my skin, for I spent so many days in the dark. I had to build the walls. I had to stop allowing those pounding on the door to come inside. I had to finally tell my demons to sit down and shut the hell up. They can be just so loud sometimes.

I was reading through some of my old journals the other day, laughter tears rolled down my face but a part of my heart ached. I mourn for that girl. Even among private writings, I was who people wanted me to be, not who I was. I wrote in a way of trying to convince myself to be who they wanted. Speak this way. Write this way. Be. this. way.

My counselor and I talk about it a lot, who I was, who I am today. She smiles at me with pride in her eyes. She asks, “How does it feel to be this version of you?”

For once I can say, “It feels really really good.”

She lets me slowly articulate the difference between then and now. We talked about when I stripped my hair of color, fulfilling a childhood dream and desperately painting my face to be the versions of people I considered beautiful. It didn’t work. I was still unhappy. I didn’t feel beautiful. I didn’t feel at home inside the confines of my house or the confines of my skin.

I often leave that version of myself in the dark. Finding the touch of her inside my mind often bites, so I stopped reaching out. Maybe she doesn’t want to be found. It’s so dim and blurry within those recesses. I don’t tell my counselor, but I suspect that version of me hides out of shame. I’m quite certain that’s all I felt then.

Go into that space. Feel around. Where is that version? She’s lost. Lost inside the dim townhouse. Everything feels negatively charged in here. It’s full of unmet expectation, misunderstood anger, fear, rejection, feelings of failure.

She’s here somewhere. I can feel her within the blanket left on the couch, where she curled into herself, hoping to disappear for just long enough to live to the next moment. I feel her staring into that closet, hating herself for letting her body grow beyond the stitching of her clothes. I hear her internal screams echoing down the hallway, into their room. I hear her begging him to just fucking see her. She wanted to die, and I think a lot of her was.

What words does she need to hear?

We will get help. We will get a better job that we love. We will go to the gym because we love it. We will up our weights over weeks and we will be so proud of the inside of our body, not the outside. We start reading again. We will be spared making an impossible decision. What was asked of us, was unfair and it never should have happened. We will stop screaming to be noticed, for we learn that we are enough. We begin to learn to take the space we need. We stop apologizing for existing. We wear what we want. We toss the extensions, return to our dark roots. We rarely reach for the foundation. We find our way out of the dark fog.

I see your struggle. One day, I hope you can come out of the dark. Until you are ready, I will wait and continue to fight for us.