There are days when the universe forces you to feel All.The.Shit. Every little bit. You’re thinking, “Oh, my god. I’m so fucking healed. Look at how capable I am of being normal.” But something comes along and breaks your toes, twists your arm behind your back, urges you to cry “uncle.” It reminds you: Oh, sweetie. You ain’t even close to being fixed. Here. Let me put this noun in front of you.
You’re so hungry you’ll eat it up. We all eat lies when we’re starving.
Let me give you a taste of what happiness could feel like. If you were normal.
Your fucked up, messy life’s infusion
You’ll never be full. You avoided friction. Couldn’t fix your little girl’s addiction. And now you’ll try to heal the pain with literally anything.
Rest your head, mama. Take a break. Dry your pillow. Sleep. Dream of a do-over. You can’t fix this. Grief requires your full attention.
You will survive this. What is normal anyway? You are a goddess. It was not your fault.
~ Jen Troyer, May 2020