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The thrum of my body ought to be familiar, but isn't. The tiny electrical surges of muscle fatigue are known but unwelcome. Sometimes a portion of what I think I know about myself is totally wrong. The Hows and the Whys aren't adding up. Every twitch, every suspicious difference now catches my attention and reminds me that how I think of myself has been altered.
The sun still warms the Autumn breeze. The season's storms still send a thrill of excitement through the core of me. I still smile and laugh at the cats' antics. I still enjoy the same music. I still love my husband, my son, my close friends, and my family. I'm still groggy when the day starts, and invigorated by a warm shower. I still like dark, rich, solid colors. I still consider myself "goth" and "creative" and "pagan". I still think regime change ought to start in the USA. I still appreciate my family, though I'm not always happy with the things they do. I still think bright red maple leaves shot through with yellow and green are a delight to the eyes. I still think love and hugs are two of the most precious things there are. I still enjoy reading. I still like to sing, even though I think my voice is getting rustier by the day. I'm still glad I don't smoke and rarely drink. I'm still proud of myself when I get a project done. I still like it when my husband caresses my back. I still dislike being tickled, even though it sends me giggling to tickle others. I still hate it when I'm not wearing some item of clothing to prevent the chafing of my inner thighs. I'm still scared in large crowds of cookie cutter young people. I can still appreciate a great performance. I still get emotional when I can identify with moving stories, poems, or prayers. I can still lose myself in good music. I still love the company of good friends. I still like the refreshing feel of cool air on my face. It still makes me sad that I don't know my birthparents.
So much is the same. Such a tiny detail has changed, yet I can't seem to look at myself the same way as I used to.
