I feel like I should be happy, but I’m not. I feel an ache and a deep, deep sorrow for what never was and will never be. It’s hard to remember and know that I’m lovable, even though I wasn’t loved. I feel profoundly sad and alone, while simultaneously celebrating my own ability to mother, love, nurture. It feels like a hidden aching and gaping wound that I should be over by now, but that I will carry within all the days of my life. Or this one: My own mother burned me at the stake and blames me for lighting the fire. Long, long story. I haven’t had contact in over a decade. I wish that pain
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