Old pictures are dangerous...
I was going through some photos from last year, and it got me to thinking. How is it possible for me to have changed so much in such a short period of time? I remember how I felt in those photos, my thoughts and emotions, the circumstances of my life. And it's exponentially different from who I am now.
I feel like I lost my youth in the year that's gone by.
So mellowdramatic... I'm sure 43 year old me will look back at 33 year old me and think "Shut the fuck up, child".
But for now... I don't know how to explain it. I went from feeling like a titanium encrusted rock star with limitless possibility waiting on the horizon, to a frumpy, quiet housewife who worries more about bills and dinner, and is content to have sex every now and then.
And it's not like I'm not content in that skin. I'm actually more consistently happy now than I have been before. It's a constant, low key sort of mellow buzz. I'm not constantly nervous in my life, like I was before. Or like I remember being, anyways.
I've always been obsessed with possibility. Concrete reality has never made me happy, because the idea of What If, waiting just around the corner, has always beckoned. I think this incantation of me is trying to force me to be happy in reality. There's a part of me, buried pretty deep, that screams about the loss of dreams (she's a teenager). And the maternal self I am now soothes it with the knowledge that dreams can't happen without a strong enough grasp on reality to shape it, something I have never had. And teenage me looks skeptical, but quiets down for the duration.
It's just strange, thinking about the capacity for change humans have. I suppose the basics of my life haven't changed all that much. But how I feel, who I think I am, has changed to the point where my surface reflects it. I don't recognize me from those pictures I took a year ago. I look forward to the next incarnation, though. This one is a little too meek and mild for my taste.
I feel like I lost my youth in the year that's gone by.
So mellowdramatic... I'm sure 43 year old me will look back at 33 year old me and think "Shut the fuck up, child".
But for now... I don't know how to explain it. I went from feeling like a titanium encrusted rock star with limitless possibility waiting on the horizon, to a frumpy, quiet housewife who worries more about bills and dinner, and is content to have sex every now and then.
And it's not like I'm not content in that skin. I'm actually more consistently happy now than I have been before. It's a constant, low key sort of mellow buzz. I'm not constantly nervous in my life, like I was before. Or like I remember being, anyways.
I've always been obsessed with possibility. Concrete reality has never made me happy, because the idea of What If, waiting just around the corner, has always beckoned. I think this incantation of me is trying to force me to be happy in reality. There's a part of me, buried pretty deep, that screams about the loss of dreams (she's a teenager). And the maternal self I am now soothes it with the knowledge that dreams can't happen without a strong enough grasp on reality to shape it, something I have never had. And teenage me looks skeptical, but quiets down for the duration.
It's just strange, thinking about the capacity for change humans have. I suppose the basics of my life haven't changed all that much. But how I feel, who I think I am, has changed to the point where my surface reflects it. I don't recognize me from those pictures I took a year ago. I look forward to the next incarnation, though. This one is a little too meek and mild for my taste.
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