Trophy Room

I take a hard look at my trophy room and realize that I no longer prize my collection of awful experiences.

At last I’ve caught on that there is no one waiting in the wings to hand me a bouquet of flowers after I unabashedly devour all that is placed in front of me at the shit-pie eating contest.

There are no judges to tally up the traumatic memories I’ve hoarded and guarded like coins I refuse to spend as I neglect my most basic needs.

There is no shiny statue to congratulate me on being the most sleep deprived, the most self-sacrificing.

There are no blue ribbons for a lifetime of forcing myself to do what I thought others wanted me to do, no matter how self-harmful.

I will receive no silver platter for washing the most dishes or cleaning up messes I didn’t make.

There is no certificate for achieving the deepest depression, no medallion for enduring the highest anxiety.

I will not be given a gold tooth for grinding my own teeth away.

May I stop trying so hard to amass awards for my masochistic actions.

There is no audience, and no applause.

May I enjoy the freedom afforded by this sacred silence instead.

Clearing the clutter from the shelves of my trophy room, I make space for my hopes, dreams, and infinite possibilities, for vibrant, nurturing treasures, for fresh, lush, and colorful growth, and abundant, joyful expression.


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