self doubt – Hearts Still Care

The other evening, I found myself in an unexpected emotional spiral, all because of eyeliner.

I was watching Joanna Lumley in the new season of Wednesday and I said to my partner, “Look at her eyes—so unwrinkled, she can put eyeliner so effortlessly. She’s older than my mother, and yet my mother struggles to apply eyeliner at all.”

My partner quickly pointed out that I shouldn’t be comparing actresses to my mother. I understood his point, of course. What I had expected was a conversation about how celebrities have stylists, makeup artists, and perhaps even plastic surgery, whereas my mother has lived through cancer, disease, and hardship—with a face that carries those battles. Instead, his response was, “You wouldn’t like it if I compared you to Hrithik Roshan or Anil Kapoor.”

And that hit me hard.

Because the truth is, I’m fifty. And for fifty, I know I still look good. I hear it often enough—just the other day, someone told me I looked 30, maybe 33 at most. And yet, coming from the person I love, the comparison stung. Perhaps it’s because we’re not as physically intimate as before. Perhaps it’s because I have gained weight, stopped going to the gym, and sometimes feel like I’ve “let myself go.”

The irony is, strangers often see me at my best—when I’m dressed well, energised, smiling. My partner, like anyone close, sees me at my worst—the morning face, the bad breath, the paunch that refuses to stay tucked in. And I wonder: why is it that admiration from the outside world cannot quieten the insecurities that come alive in love’s mirror?

Maybe this is my wake-up call. To do better, look better, feel better—not because I need to compete with Hrithik Roshan, who has trainers, makeup teams, and an entire industry polishing his image—but because I want to stand tall in my own skin again.

Ageing is strange. On one hand, I feel proud of how I’ve carried myself through fifty years. On the other, a single comment can undo all that pride and pull me into comparison. Perhaps the lesson here is that beauty is not a fixed point—it’s a moving mirror, and sometimes the hardest reflection to accept is the one shown by those we love most.

I can never be assured of my worth. In the scheme of things, I can never understand just how much I mean to someone I love. I know what they mean to me and just how much it would devastate me, if I lost them. But I can never realise what it would mean for them to lose me.

I’ve known men to love me and then give me up. It doesn’t take them much to discard me like used toilet paper. I’ve seen the ones who love me lose interest in me sexually. It happens over years and sometimes over months. I guess that is true of most relationships. But it’s always sad to be the one who gets faded out first.

I wonder what it would take for someone to be completely compatible in at least one aspect of the relationship. I’ve been hearing quips about age. Then there are comparisons to my way of cooking in which I fall short. There are incompatibilities in bed. I am left to wonder who doesn’t like kissing? I mean anal sex is preferable to being French kissed and that sets my alarm bells ringing.

But through it all I doubt myself. It’s never the other. I find myself lacking. That’s what happens with love. We revert the accusations. This self hate pierces directly in my heart and character. Has the abuse from my father and the lack of a male figure in my life made me incapable of seeing myself worthy in the eyes of any man? That’s a very scary thought.

I look at myself in the mirror and I see someone who has a bad body and a lopsided face. People on social media say I look magnificent. There are men I have met who want to wed me, bed me, the entire fucking deal. But then I know how that works. It all is roses and attention in the beginning. But eventually the roses die and the attention diminishes. So I am back to the mirror.

But is my self worth really in their hands? How they see me? Is my identity linked to whether I am fuckable? Or if I want the question to seem worthier, lovable? What is with me that I cannot see myself as a survivor?

I lived through abuse. Determined my sexuality with no help but my own research and knowledge. I faced bullies. I made my own way. I took care of my needs. I raised my fur kids. I braved heart break. I faced depression and anxiety for decades. I met death head on and battled the overwhelming sense of losing the loves of my life. I dealt with diseases I feared and I helped others through them. I shunned discrimination. I loved those who loved me and then some. I provided a safe haven in my own home and with my family for the men I love. I helped them to understand what it meant to be gay and accepted and loved. In the process, I understood love, loss and lust. I became who I wanted to be. I remained true to myself and showed that truth to the ones I loved.

So why the fuck do I give my power to the men I fall in love with? If it’s because of some thing my dad and I have to resolve then well, he’s dead. I probably need therapy to deal with that. So then, so be it.