Even with those smile lines around my eyes.
I look back at pictures of myself at 20 and I see a young lady who was pretty cute.
I was 10 kilos lighter than I am now, and my skin was mostly flawless. There were no gentle lines at the sides of my eyes that smile for a minute longer than I do, nor was there any scarring on my chin from post-breastfeeding acne.
There was no pigmentation from pregnancy, just smooth young skin, that I treated with utter disrespect, regularly wearing make up to bed and rarely wearing sunscreen. All this aside, I look more lovely now and I’m not speaking with an ounce of vanity.
At 20, my boobs sat high and proud on my chest. I’d whip them out at the drop of a hat because I was quite proud of them, and most likely drunk and disorderly.
This tall, slim dark eyed girl I see looking at me in photos was cute, no doubt, but the tragedy of the situation was I didn’t like or respect myself worth a scrap.
I didn’t know my worth.
I was only so slim because I didn’t eat for at least 3 days a week. Thursday to Sunda, I took a massive amount of drugs and I danced virtually non-stop. How I held a job remains a mystery to this day.
I had a ball…Don’t get me wrong.
I can barely remember a thing for about a good 5 years there, but I know it was cray-cray fun.
I think about my kids partaking in this manner of cray-cray and my skin wants to crawl straight off my skeleton.
By the time I was 21 I had had a couple of boyfriends who did considerable damage to my self esteem, so between the violence and the drugs and the emotional abuse I actually didn’t think very highly of myself at all.
I could have looked like a friggin’ super model but nothing would have made me see anything in the mirror that reflected anything light. I reflected broken fragments like a shattered mirror.
The years following I traveled a lot, and there were eating issues, and my weight yoyo’d and then I had kids, and I guess I grew up and realised that although I will always be somewhat vain, my external appearance actually comes from the inside.
Our external appearance actually comes from the inside.
I started reading the children Roald Dahl’s The Twits. It’s “a little bit scary” so we’ve swapped to James and the Giant Peach, but a wonderful quote of his tumbled out from Chapter 4, the introduction of the horrible Mrs Twit.