Late Bloomer

by Mazey Eddings

And that’s my problem. I’m so hungry to connect with someone—anyone—I settle for crumbs and pretend like they’re a full meal.

I hate that hate. I have endless grace for everyone in the world, but none for myself. Why am I not allowed to make mistakes? Why does my compassion stretch to strangers but stop at my own front door?

Grief is a strange beast. It can lie dormant for weeks. Months. You can go through the motions of life and truly convince yourself you’re healed and fine and will actually survive the heartache of loss. And then, like the flip of a switch, it rears its head and snaps its jaws, hungry and ready to devour you whole.

Amen. Even after 5 years, an event can still bring me right back to that trauma.

“Hunger takes me to a dark place.” “Yeah, no shit. I’m scared of what will happen if I don’t get a full meal in you in the next ten minutes.” “I’ll make my final metamorphosis into a cuntosaurus rex and pillage this lovely hotel.”

My partner & sister are both the “hangry” type.