ophelian echo

I know this artist whose work I absolutely adore. But it extends so much deeper after meeting her and briefly getting to know her. I think, and I really hate admitting this, but I’d like her life. She paints all day in her gorgeous studio, makes beautiful images, reads, dreams, makes magic. She travels, practices ballet, wears beautiful clothing and is beautiful herself. She seems to be everything I am not, and everything I want to be.

When I contrast this to my life, I feel such self hatred and disappointment. It’s a horrible feeling that, to be honest, I’ve never felt before. Yes, I am jealous of certain aspects of other’s lives, but this feels significant. This disgust with my situation and sort of trapped feeling seems insurmountable and permanent.

Lots of things outside of myself have helped spur this: an episode of Paradise, the Pitt finale, a Two Girls One Ghost episode, random facebook posts targeted towards me, the passage of time, and seeing my tiny, beautiful daughter grow up. Strange, I know.

I’m going to have to divide things into parts because it was long and arduous and my mind holds so many details that I aim to never forget albeit painful. And then honestly, I’ll have to recount immediate postpartum because that is in and of itself a traumatic period of time that has unfortunately become a blur.