A Letter to My Younger Self
Like all younger versions of ourselves, the much younger me was a beautiful, vibrant girl who had no idea how important and special she was.
Important. Vibrant. Special. Beautiful.
Should I be so bold as to assign such elaborate adjectives to describe myself? Well, I like to think that now, decades later, and through much abuse and humiliation, I’ve earned the right to deem myself any adjective I choose, as all women should.
As barely more than a teenager, I failed to grasp the true essence of beauty or the qualities that genuinely define a woman’s beauty. My skin, as pale as bone, shunned the sun’s touch, flecked with freckles that emerged within mere moments under its rays. I had a slender grace and kindness, though there were moments when I could be fiery and distant, especially when defending others against bullies. I didn’t know it then, but my incessant need to protect others was mostly out of shame for being unable to protect myself.
And this is where my story begins.
Our family portrait was anything but idyllic. My father, although he loved me dearly, loved the drink more. My mother was a victim of self-sabotage; she relentlessly tried to make my father happy, unaware of the impossibility of such an endeavor. All she wanted from him was his heart, but a man lost in the throes of addiction is incapable of understanding love and affection, much less showing it.
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