My life brings me a lot of pleasure, these days. I’m not as unhappy as I was. I like myself, mostly. I look in the mirror and am pleased with what I see.
I still fall out of balance, but I know how to bring myself back. Cook. Eat. Walk on the beach. Listen. I’m not as scared of myself as I was. Sometimes being quiet makes me feel better.
I have my avenues of expression. I have friends who listen, and spaces to write. My cat is steady and unwavering. I have enough. In some ways, I have more than enough, I am blessed.
I have things that bring me pleasure. A body, a pretty view, purple, comfortable underwear.
I cry sometimes. Usually because of other people. My struggles with them, my confusion. People disappoint me, I don’t know why. My mother didn’t like people; perhaps I recreate her reality. I don’t think my expectations are overly rigid, or even high. Maybe the problem is my hopes. I hope for a lot in relationship. Constant honesty, unwavering presence.
My mother should have named me detail, at least then some people would have paid attention.