Exodus

I feel like a snake shedding its skin.

When I came here, I came in a white t-shirt two sizes too big, malnourished, and wrapped in a tan and ivory sheepskin coat, my blue jeans sagging over my bony ankles. The handbag at my side had a bad zipper that I ignored, one that would snarl its teeth over the aged rayon fabric as it collected itself inward and outward at my behest for things the bag was too small to carry, but one that I stuffed with things anyway.

Today in the mail I received a new hairbrush. The other day, a new handbag (brown leather, a stylish and slouchy hobo bag with a magnet instead of a zipper to keep it shut); while thrifting, I got a faux fur bomber jacket, and instead of white t-shirts, I’ve leaned into stylish gray ones that are fitted.

Since getting sober, my hair has more body and wave to it. I dye it the shade “Rich Caviar”, a dark espresso brown with subtle burgundy lowlights to cover the shock of grays at my widow’s peak that came with years of trauma. I wear my hair with a wavy tendril down my cheekbone either in a ponytail or twisted back with a French hairpin.

In other words, I came one woman and when I leave Delray Beach, Florida for the plaines of Illinois, I will come home another.

This transformation is not merely surface level. My inner landscape is one of increased integrity, both to myself and how others treat me. I am intolerant to manipulation, coercion, or degradation. In other words, I won’t stand for bullshit. Nor will I stand for false judgement (one of the things that thrust me into this new world);

Somethings have not changed, however. I still carefully apply deep crimson lipstick to my lips. I draw and write, but with more confidence. I live as the women who raised me have wanted me to live, I carry myself differently because I carry them with me.

I carry myself differently now.