The once sturdy trunk, now dilapidated and held together with duct tape, was filled with a century’s worth of photo albums my mother delicately labeled and organized. They provided bittersweet memories some of which made me smile and some that brought tears to my eyes.

On top of the albums was a single photo; it was a picture of Mom and Dad taken during their courtship in 1943 standing beside two newlyweds—Aunt Wanna (Mom’s sister) and Uncle Ben. They all appeared peacefully happy and in love. I wondered, “Was life back then actually as simplistic and satisfying as it seemed?”

This gallery of pictures took me back to a wonderful time in my life, when I was happy and enjoyed being treated like a little princess, even by customers who frequented the Blue Bird Café—a restaurant my mother and grandmother owned in the late 1940s to the early 50s.

Now, at 58-years old, one thought repeatedly came to my mind as I looked through the myriad of photographs; I wondered why I couldn’t be like the two special women in my life—Mom and Granny, as I endearingly called her. There they were, in a faded picture taken of them outside the café, two women I respected and loved—two women who were not only strong and capable, but extraordinarily beautiful. In fact, Mom looked like the 1940s actress Gene Tierney, who was said, by Darryl F. Zanuch, founder, 20th Century Fox, to have been “Unquestionably the most beautiful woman in movie history.”

As my trip through Memory Lane continued, I found a tattered pink baby book. It was filled with cards congratulating my parents on the birth, in 1947, of their new daughter—me. There were also pictures, including one of me at 10-months old standing on a porch. I was dressed in a floor length robe; a shiny crown sat tilted on my tiny head. I had won a local contest; I was voted the “Most Beautiful Baby.” I wondered, “Could this be where my journey actually began? Did I always equate being loved and lovable with being beautiful? Did this lead to my long detour—a side trip that took me in search of innocent interaction and self acceptance, into a world of seduction and betrayal?”

Throughout my life I had many faces including the 10-month old beauty queen, a somewhat awkward and bashful child, a God-fearing-goody-two-shoes preteen, a flirty yet cautious adolescent who for a period of time actually did feel beautiful, a loving and giving wife and mother, and now a middle-aged overweight woman who couldn’t bare to look in a mirror and was becoming more housebound each day.

As a child, I sought to be perfect, especially in my father’s eyes. He was persnickety, often pointing out flaws, wanting me to always look polished. I didn’t take this as encouragement to shine my shoes or do a better job at ironing my dress; I saw myself as a failure—something that Dad would have never wanted for me. I just couldn’t quite measure up to my own standards. I desired to look like the petite girl down the street, with the gorgeous body and wardrobe, a pristine complexion, and an impeccable bedroom.

Some might say being raised as an only child I was a spoiled. If having doting parents and an entourage of supportive family and friends was spoiled—I was. Although I received encouragement and attention mostly due to my abilities in art, music, dance, and swimming, something was always missing—satisfaction in my self. However, my opinion did improve during my teenage years when I started noticing boys giving me the once over. An occasional cat call boosted my ego, at least temporarily.

Once married, I found besides not having the perfect body or the perfect face I desired, I now didn’t have a perfect marriage. I was disappointed, but the good little Catholic girl would endure whatever marriage, a husband, or life dished out.

My new husband felt compliments were unnecessary and that people should feel good about their self. I ignored my need for compliments and accepted that he was right. I never took into consideration that some of our marital problems were due to being raised differently or our young age. No—“All our problems had to be my fault. I was a failure as a wife or he would love me more.”

Throughout the years, I heard my husband say, “I love you,” or “Deborah Jean, you are a beautiful person,” but I still held out hope that I would see desire or passion--that I-want-you-more-than-anything look. Actually, just hearing, “You look really nice tonight Honey would have made my day,” but instead I’d hear, “Deborah Jean, you expect too much from marriage. That picture of your parents cuddled up on the couch after twenty years of marriage is a fantasy. This is the real world.” I learned that marriage in the real world meant having love and sex without passion.

I showed my husband. Eventually I found what I needed—the Internet. Here, I began building a wall, one I could hide behind and be the beautiful assertive and self-assured woman I wanted to be. It didn’t bother me that I couldn’t see the facial expression of the person I was chatting with or that I couldn’t hear a voice. Although the words scrolling across my computer screen were written by a stranger, I was obviously getting what I needed from them—praise, compliments, love, and more romance and passion than a person could ever want—that is if you had a vivid imagination.

This new fantasy world brought out different aspects of my personality—aspects that had been hidden for most of my life. My extrovert side came out as RebelDeb47— I was playful and friendly always ready to listen and unafraid to express myself. As the beautiful and flirty LadyNRed, I openly expressed my sexuality and reveled in the knowledge I was again a wanted woman who regularly received requests to travel to a central location for a clandestine encounter. Men obviously enjoyed my charm and spirit, and most of all, my sensitivity to their needs. I found chat rooms and the interaction with strangers to be exhilarating and fulfilling. At the start of my Internet experience, I would never imagine how this journey would twist and turn, changing me and my life—forever.

Now, ten years later, with the fantasy world behind me, I found another version of myself--Deborah. As Deborah, I began analyzing meaningful moments in my childhood, my 30-year marriage, Internet experiences, and present-day life. I recognized how my feelings were affected by events that happened throughout my life. In the past, I allowed attitudes of others, especially the men in my life, to affect how I felt about myself. I set out to prove to women that how they see their self is far more important than how any man perceives them. I am now determined to make significant changes in my life and in the person I am. I believe huge changes are possible at any age. In fact, at nearly sixty-years of age, and with encouragement from family and friends, I have spent the past year investigating ways of improving the entire spectrum of my existence.

During this process, I am becoming a stronger woman, one who feels confident in herself and her decisions. I am determined to live life to the fullest by adding lots of smiles and laughter, more activities, better health, and all-around quality back into my life. I want to be able to play with my grandchildren, dance with my husband, walk up a hill, and look in a mirror and not cry.

I know in my heart—I have to do this for me—and in the long run—for women in general.