I don’t know what I expected

I don’t know if I expected to awaken, enlightened. I don’t know if I expected to feel as though the work I am doing for myself is enough, simply because I am finally caring enough to do it. I don’t know if I expected to sudden love my body, my heart, my soul.

I don’t know if I expected to fall in love with my pillowy hips, with my exaggerated curves, with my nose which never quite seemed to fit my face. I don’t know if I expected to forget feeling like a worthless piece of shit. If I expected to forget being told that very thing. I don’t know if I expected to roll over as he slept, and be filled with feeling worthy of him.

I don’t know if I expected to stop equating my self worth with numbers on a scale, with numbers on a paycheck, with fighting this internal war against an invisible enemy. I don’t know if I expected in these sessions of spilling filth and truth to a stranger, to feel inexplicably guilty and selfish for needing it.

I don’t know if I expected to forget. I don’t know if I expected to look in the mirror and be ok with what was looking back at me.

But, I’m not. For all the progress I make, for all the leaps and epiphanies and realizations and strides I make, the underneath is still a hill of shit, waiting for a rose to bloom.

I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t this, and sometimes it is almost too much to bear.

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