Coping is not curing.

I want to strut through my kitchen screaming about monsters and trees.

I want to raise my hands and bow my head with tear-stained cheeks.

Low and behold, there it was staring back at me, “Above all, courage.”

Are all the appointments and medications and procedures useless? Am I wasting everybody’s time? Am I an imposter?

How do I get dressed? How do I not sound like a total b*#&h every moment of every day? How am I supposed to be human?