My friend Alison forwarded a link on my Google Reader today. It's about a woman who cannot see the beauty that she is and it's dedicated to all the rest of the women out there who cannot see their own beauty. I look at the picture this woman posted and I see an absolutely lovely woman with beautiful hair, a beautiful smile and a lovely, joyful daughter. She can't see any of it. I totally get it. Her story speaks to me and my fragile self-esteem in a deafening way right now.
There is a part of me who wants to upload my photo so I can get all these affirmations and ride all this positive wave with the rest of them. But I won't. I can't.
Because right now, when I look in the mirror, I'm not liking what I see. I see a woman who looks, literally, 10 years older than she did 18 months ago. I have dark circles that won't go away. I had a head full of curly, thick hair before Kes died; fully half of it is gone, to the point where I'm wondering if I need to try medication to make it come back. I have crow's feet on my crow's feet. I need to lose 40 pounds, and for the first time ever in my life, I have fat around my tummy. I have enough grays that I actually NEED to color my hair now. People used to comment on my eyes; they have always been my best feature. Anymore, there is no sparkle there. I look in that mirror and I see a woman who looks exhausted, weary, haggard.
And I don't like it.
I am angry at the universe. I am angry that some insidious DNA mutation not only took the joy from my heart, but that it saw fit to leave the scars of that insult on my face for all to see.
Maybe in time, things will look different. Maybe, as my heart heals (IF my heart heals), the sparkle will come back.
Maybe next week. Maybe next month. But not now.