Phoenix in Paris

I am more…

… than just a paycheck; or a vagina; or a uterus.

I am more.

I am responsible for my effort and my attitude.  Beyond that, there is little I can “control.”

My worth is more than the luck I have with “succeeding” in a career that is valued monetarily.  I have worth even if I fail at every career.

I am more than a vagina.  I am worthy of love, even if I cannot give you sex; or sex that meets your standards.  I deserve intimacy.

I am more than a baby-making machine.  My worth is not dependent on the number of children I have; or don’t have.

I believe I am more, and that that more has great worth.

But what is more?

For years, I have given my worth away so casually that I have rarely noticed it slipping from me.  Even as I progress, I have trouble “quantifying” this Other: who or what I am apart from tangible things like dollars or degrees or meals or lovely homes or orgasms.

And what exactly is a person supposed to “bring” to a relationship?  I can’t think of anything more important, or elusive, than emotional availability and support.

People comment on the beautiful light they see in me.  Most seem to grasp that I approach the world with only the purest of intentions and striving always to do my best.  They know that is worth something.

So why don’t I?

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