So what you have is a girl (she feels like a girl) of around 32, probably so drawn looking because of her the demands of working full time and tackling an MFA program I was never having much of a good time in. Add in a disastrous relationship with someone it took years to untangle from (someone who was married and a supreme sociopath / compulsive liar). The press was a couple years old and gaining steam and I was on the verge of my first book coming out, but just as adrift in this thing called poetry as I ever am. If you'd asked me then, I would have told you I was happy, but comparatively, I look back and think I was foolish to think so.
Fast forward to a couple years back when my current pic was taken. Not only am I a few pounds lighter and a few shades blonder, but, at least then, I was pretty happy and I believe that happiness more (granted this was pre-Trump era and before my mom got sick--both things that have made the past two years a bit rougher. ) I've written several more books, moved into the studio and finished the MFA. Better clothes, better relationship, a few more cats. All in all, things have worked out pretty well for that 32 year old now on the crest of 45. I don't mind aging in itself (it's more the weird disconnect between how you feel on the inside vs. what is happening on the outside. I worry I will forever feel like I'm 25 and be walking around in an 80 year old's body (if I'm lucky).
