#betterthangood

I laugh at that, because it reminds me of a puberty education VHS tape my mom got from Tampax in lieu of explaining a vagina to me. I watched it alone in a big room where she’d left me to learn all that I could, before she asked me if I had any questions.

But my intention wasn’t to bring vaginas into this discussion, however comfortable I am in doing so.

MOSTLY

I just feel better since I posted the other day. It was a difficult truth for me, though you, reader, in your empathy and incredible literary skills, probably knew it before I did.

(Facebook did... the sponsored posts I got from Psychology Today were just totally uncanny.)

But just getting it out there helped me immeasurably. Part of that is the number of sweet messages I got when I put it all out there. Thank you.

Part of it is also just the purge. It started a trend. I’ve also come clean with my manager at work about some things I feel there.

I’ve also come clean with myself: I literally felt my own neck fat when I turned my head yesterday. I wondered how many times I’ve looked at my body and thought “I’ll work on that later” without really feeling how much weight I’ve gained in the years since I gave up on myself.

Today, I’m just thinking about where all of that leaves me. Now that I’m willing to face all the neglect I’ve accumulated and cash it in for something better. Something as awesome as I know I can be.

Who am I now? When I stop worrying about being good enough to love, or good enough to have a frank discussion instead of a VHS tape, or good enough to own a body that feels respected?

I feel hopeful that I might be someone that I might enjoy. Someone who gives and shares instead of fears.

So, like usual, it manifests here: in text.

Writing is just how I track my progress, and the first step is just doing this. Admitting I have a problem, right? Admitting that I need to do this no matter who judges. Admitting that I need to take better care of my self and my friendships. Admitting that my choices have sucked, as much as my parents did.

None of that defines me.

I can define me. 

And re-define me. Until I know who I am now.

So thanks, Tampax, I guess. For the question.