Welcome. Thank you for visiting here today. We’re gathered here to say farewell to a version of myself that no longer exists. We’ll pick her last outfit, do her last hair and make-up, and lay her to rest in a beautiful coffin. As the coffin lowers, all the other versions of me shed tears, pretending to care, but really, we all know it’s best that this one is gone.
We’re burying the version that believed family literally meant “family”. The people you were born to rather than the people who actually show up for you. We’re burying the version that idolized people who had no time for her and made her feel small. Those people don’t deserve a seat at her table and she knows this now.
We’re burying the me that I used to be. The one that thought carrying a “mom” title actually meant something and that in the end, my parents had to love me still, right? Wrong. We’re burying this whole thought process now too. Toss it in with the body of the version I used to be.
We’re burying the version of me who believed people easily, trusted without reason and loved without boundaries. Today, she dies. And in her place is one who loves fiercely the people who are safe for her to love.
She was wonderful but too soft. She was a dreamer but not realistic. And she believed people every time they said they’d change, and they didn’t. She believed her sole role was to be a good daughter, but she was trying to be a good daughter to parents who didn’t care about being good parents. She constantly chased validation from them and they’d very rarely give it. She ran circles around them begging for love and they’d just slam the door on her face each and every time she got close.
We’re burying her today. Good-bye. Good-bye to the version of me that once believed life would be kinder.
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