self care.

I can brush my teeth with no problem.
I can usually eat one or two meals a day.
I can make myself a cup of coffee.
I can…

That’s where it ends, actually – the taking-care-of-myself thing. Drinking water? Nope. Getting enough sleep? Eh. Spending money on myself? Are you kidding!?

I needed a new laptop. Well, I wouldn’t say need. The one I had worked, technically. I could use it for at least half an hour before it overheated, and the touchpad worked at least 70 percent of the time. I was fine.

And I was fine with my wardrobe before my mother-in-law (my beautiful, generous, soulful mother-in-law) gifted me with a certificate to spend what I thought was a ridiculous amount of money on new underthings.
“From time to time we all need to toss out the old and make room for new, colourful things in our lives!” she wrote. I smiled. And then I read the amount she’d given me, and I vomited.*

Let me disclaim.

I wasn’t trying to play the martyr. I really was fine with my broken computer and my faded undergarments – they did their job well enough.
I guess, deep down somewhere, I wanted more, but the Guilt part outweighed the Want part. So what if those new things would make me feel like a million dollars? “I’m not worth a million dollars,” I thought, “I don’t deserve to feel good about myself until I’m more… something. Lots of things.

I still kind of think that, to be honest. But I’m working on it.

Like so many things, it’s a process.

So today, after a long and grueling day at work, I decided to force myself to treat myself well. As my amazing husband often reminds me “you deserve to be happy and be a little spoiled just as much, if not more, than you believe any other girl does.” (Again, I’m still working on agreeing with this…) So I ran a bath. And I tossed in a bath bomb I’d gotten as a gift months ago – I hadn’t been able to bring myself to actually use it ’til today. And I put on a face mask. And Netflix. Because, Netflix. I even got a glass of wine, and allowed myself to linger, and use my softest towels and my best lotion. And it felt amazing. The guilt was there, lurking, but I shooed it away with wine and bubbles.

I’m still not sure I deserve to be “that girl.” The one who does her makeup and wears pretty clothes… I always imagine, when I dress up, that I must look to everyone like a pig in lipstick. Like everyone’s thinking “who does she think she is?” Well. Every time that thought creeps into my mind, leering at me and threatening to steal my happiness, I’m going to (try to) respond “I’m Miranda. And I am worth it. Just as much as anyone else.”

… I think.


*Sorry. This blog might have a pretty design and occasionally I’ll use pretty, flowery words, but I will also occasionally post some ugly things here. Ugly, truthful things. I hope this doesn’t upset you.



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