This piece is from tonight’s Lacuna Loft Unspoken Ink writing workshop. It’s based on one of the prompts, which basically said we decide when our birthdays are, when we feel we are another year older, better, wiser.
I’m a Real Girl Now
Am I a better, wiser person today? Do I deserve a birthday celebration? Am I a better person for having survived cancer twice and lost my husband?
My battles have been, and are, long and hard fought. So, do I get to move up to the next age? I’ve shown up every day with a positive attitude, worked daily to get out of bed, gone about life as a semi-reasonable adult, been social, been grateful, been strong.
So, do my strength and determination buy me another year?
What wisdom? What meaning have I found in the suffering, and sorrow, and loss? (not much)
Am I a better person because I’ve managed to survive and cope for the last eight years?
I’ve worked on the scary tasks of learning to live rather than just survive and to feel and experience my own emotions.
I’m a real girl now; a mix of The Velveteen Rabbit, The Little Mermaid, and Pinocchio. Is being real the same thing as being wise? Does this mean I’m worthy of another birthday celebration?