
Therapy
I can feel tears coming. I hate crying, but should be used to it by now.
“I guess I’m still not over the trauma of being in the closet,” I say. “It’s difficult to vocalise that without others making it about themselves: ‘Was I a terrible parent?’ ‘Was I a bad friend?’ Ugh! And coming out doesn’t change who you are. You’re not suddenly happier, braver, more confident, or any better equipped to give or receive love than you were before. It’s hard work and fucking lonely sometimes, you know?”
The teddy stares back lifelessly. It knows no other way.
Written in response to Friday Fictioneers, a weekly 100-word writing challenge hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Come and play along!

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