The Girl Who Lived.

I’ve heard people say that every day is a gift, but I think about it differently now.

I’ve been sick for nine days. And I’m thinking that it’s a privilege even to be sick. To stay in bed for over a week. To have a partner who brings me whatever I need and keeps things moving. To read a poem to him. To shower and put on cozy clothes.

I feel like something major has changed in my perspective, like I’m not quite the person I was this morning. I have had an awakening. Today and all future days will be different.

Why? Because I’ve been thinking about Harry Potter. I missed out on the books growing up; I read them at B’s request in my late twenties. Harry survived an encounter with an evil sorcerer, an encounter that killed his parents, that scarred him literally and figuratively, that no one should have lived through. Everyone called him The Boy Who Lived.

Fourteen years ago today, I survived risky O’s birth, a scary surgery, and a postpartum illness that easily could have killed me. I lived.

Five years ago next week, I put down bottles of pills and a razor. I got out of the bathtub, woke Josh, and went to the hospital. Despite a global pandemic, despite mental illness, despite impossible circumstances, despite despair, I lived.

I am The Girl Who Lived.

These fourteen years mark time I easily could have missed. Fourteen years to love, to see, to create, to read, to write, to advocate, to see so many brilliant shows, to watch movies and listen to music, to meet my best friend, to write my first novella. I feel like I haven’t done enough, but I have done so much with this extra time!

And I didn’t die in that bathtub, in an ambulance, or in an ER five years ago. I’ve won awards. I’ve completed books. I’ve gotten a book accepted for publication. I’ve visited my favorite city. I’ve read hundreds of books. I’ve discovered Pippi Post and Annie Stegg and Art by Isobelle, artists I adore. I’ve gone to bookshops, discovered Quail Ridge Books in Raleigh and Chapter House Books in Fayetteville and Strand in New York. I’ve gone to my first residency! I’ve taught again. I’ve sent out 150 submissions that never would have seen the light of day. I’ve discovered Shuly Cawood’s workshops and written so many poems. I’ve filled shelves of journals. I’ve cooked amazing meals all by myself—and that’s just recently! I’ve connected more personally with a couple of great people. I’ve started getting the Archer & Olive subscription box, which is one of my favorite things. I’ve found so many favorite things, so many great reasons to be alive. I discovered Pan downtown, a favorite restaurant. I’ve gone on dates and had weekend getaways. I’ve read my poetry to strangers. I’ve smelled candles and tasted Cold Stone Creamery milkshakes. I’ve found the most comfortable pants (Lou & Grey). I’ve gotten a cat! I’ve endured heartbreak and come out more authentic and more tender. I’ve found a new level of love.

I’ve celebrated five more Christmases. I’ve reached almost twenty years with J. I’ve started a fun Instagram. I started a website and a Substack. I’ve moved into a dreamy townhouse and decorated it just as I like. I’ve discovered poets. I’ve discovered Catriona Ward. I’ve seen the seen the Wicked movie! I’ve heard my child laugh so many times and watched him thrive at school. I’ve seen O find peace from his anxiety. I’ve seen Six and added a new cast album to my favorites. I’ve bought a pink glitter lamp—something I’ve wanted for over twenty years! I’ve taken classes with my favorite writer! I’ve found Pipsticks and Violette Stickers. I’ve put lights on my porch for the first time, and I’ve spent so many mornings sitting out there.

I’ve turned forty. I have made love. I have recognized my need for self-love. I have surrounded myself with a Glinda-pink bubble of beauty. I have sparkled. I have lived.

And I will live all ninety-seven days that are left in this year. I will engage. I will learn and love. I will let art enrapture me. I will grow closer to J. I will laugh with B until my stomach and my face hurt. I will say funny things, clever things. I will write poems. I will send writing out into the world. I will, to quote Little Women’s Marmee, embrace my liberty and see what wonderful things come of it.

Confessions on Beauty, Prejudice, and Self-Love.

I feel so stressed, and I don't have a great reason. I'm behind on writing, behind on work. I'm overwrought, and my head hurts. My neck is tight. And my face still hurts; damn acne--swollen lumps on my chin, jaw, and neck. I feel ugly these days. 

Both Bruce and my mom said I looked pretty in the photos from my reading, but those seem like consolation compliments, things you'd say to someone who normally isn't attractive. That's silly projecting, though. I can't expect anyone but Josh to tell me I'm pretty. 

I'm projecting my own pettiness and prejudice, my childhood insecurities that say that people with extra weight, with pimples, or with glasses can't be attractive. When I was very little, I thought people who were "fat" couldn't get married because no one would love them! How messed up is that?! Where did it come from? My couple of years in public school? Something in preschool? 

I'm ashamed to admit those thoughts. I'm sharing them only because I can't be the only one. I guess it's only fair that I am chubby, have glasses, and have acne. Really, those thoughts were warnings to myself: I can't be attractive. It doesn't mean anyone else has the same thoughts, except maybe (like me) about themselves. It doesn't even mean I think it about other people. I've been attracted to Josh regardless of acne or extra weight when he's had them, and I love his glasses. I know he is attracted to me; he demonstrates that, though not so much right now because I'm sick. I don't need anyone else to think I'm an attractive person. 

Do I need to think it about myself? As an adult, I haven't often been self-conscious or concerned with what others think when they look at me, but I've been embarrassed lately. I stopped wearing foundation a couple of years ago, but now, I'm wearing concealer again. I know the acne is hormonal, and the weight is probably hormones plus medication. I also don't like my hair right now at its awkward length. Recently, one of my front teeth broke. I got it fixed quickly, but that was another source of embarrassment even though almost no one saw it. 

Is it all punishment for some vanity of which I've been unaware? I've usually felt comfortable with my appearance as an adult. But now, I don't feel like I even recognize myself physically. I need to grow out my hair, lose the rest of this weight, and go to the dermatologist. OTC skincare isn't cutting it. 

I don't want to devalue myself because I don't feel pretty. I don't owe the world physical beauty. My writing is beautifully dark and strange...or beautifully luminous. My worth is inherent. But I am struggling. 

I've struggled with self-love for a few years before these bodily insecurities. I believed certain things about myself, as a person, a wife, and a writer. It turned out others had different perceptions, and this really threw me. I started to wonder if I knew myself at all, and I started to think there wasn't much to like. 

I've made some efforts to shore up my self-love, but I need to do that now more than ever. A couple of books have helped me: A Year of Self-Motivation for Women and A Year of Self-Love. I'm currently reading A Year of Self-Esteem straight through. The books have brief quotations, reflections, prompts, and affirmations. As I go through them, I write down my own affirmations right there in the book. 

The great aspect of affirmations is that you don't have to believe them to use them! You train your mind to believe them and therefore live and embody them. We do this all the time: shape our beliefs, perceptions, and behaviors. Well, often, we let others do it for us. I want to take more control. I want to focus on and enhance the good.

I am beautiful. I have enchanting eyes, strong legs, and striking coloring. I have a distinct style. I carry myself with assurance. I am poised and elegant. I am open to the beauty in myself and others. I am memorable.

I don't have to be flawless to be beautiful...or to be good.