Well. I didn't like myself that much in the first place. But, on consideration, I miss the person who thought she'd grow into something better. I was optimistic. Misguidedly optimistic. Of course I would become thinner, get a job, create something, be a good parent, handle a relationship well, stay married, manage.
I miss the young boobs I thought were terrible then, but sure, I wish I'd appreciated them and the rest of myself more. Bits of me were firm and youthful, if nothing else. I miss the hair I've ruined. I miss being un-guilty and un-jealous. I don't remember being terrified, but perhaps I was. I think I was probably just lonely and full of longing.
I'm losing the longing now, which is a relief but so much else has filled up that space, and it's no comfort.
I look at my mother's life - a shit marriage followed by a torturous, soul-crushing one, and eventually being jettisoned out of it, and the home she loved, into a life of stress and illness management with no future, no rest in sight, and then a premature, peaceless death - and I don't know what to do to change that for myself. I miss thinking there would be something more, because of course there had to be.