I Don’t Eat Turkey

Today is a day of gratitude and thankfulness. And somehow, in typical Megan-style, I woke up in a puddle if self-sorrow, shaking.

I needed Instagram to remind me that last night was one of the biggest party nights of the year; well, it is if you have friends. It is incredibly defeating how difficult it is to make friends as an adult. So home I sat. In bed I lay. In loneliness I weep.

I can hear my father downstairs, making a muted raucous preparing things for the day. I should be helping. I really should be helping my mom, while we watch the parade and say again, like we do ever year, how neat it would be to see The Rockettes. I’m sorry I never took you to see them, Mom.

Dad should be out delivering the pumpkin rolls we haven’t made since mom died. To all those people who used to be part of our life as a family.

I should be texting a boyfriend of some kind, frustrated at how both our families eat at the same time and we can’t be in two places at once.

But, in bed I lay. In sorrow I weep.

I want to skip it this year.

I’m tired of pretending to be okay. I’m not. Especially not today. Or any day from now until after the new year.

Thanksgiving marks the start of my own strong-woman obstacle course that I have to navigate friendless and motherless.

My birthday. The day Mom took her stroke. The day we took her off life support. Christmas. New Year’s.

I am thankful for my bed.

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