The loser woman from hell? That would be me. Why? Because I was an Editor's Pick. 

Let me explain: I am not a writer. I am a hobby blogger. You know why? Because I'm not good enough to be a writer. There. I said it. Writers are people who exist on a plane high above me. Way over my head. I think it was Superbowl Sunday when I was chosen as an Editor's Pick, so the editors must have been drunk. Right?

Following the initial exhilaration of being chosen as an Editor's Pick came a devastating crash. 

"Who do you think you are? What makes you think you can write, anyway? How pathetic - you think you can actually write anything worth reading? You think the editors actually liked your post? They picked you as a joke. They were making fun of you. Loser."

I know, I know. I sound a bit psychotic. But you see, I am of two minds: the mind that was raised by me, with the help of sponsors, therapists, and (especially) friends; and the mind that was raised by cannibals. 

Most of the time, these days, the mind that was raised by me has control over my life. There are whole weeks during which I walk around like a female Depak Chopra, loving myself, loving my life, loving the people around me. But once in a while, the feral mind gets out of her cage. When she takes over, look out! She has  fangs and  claws and ravenous eyes, and when she looks at me she sees one thing: lunch.

I was not supposed to live. I was supposed to curl up in a corner somewhere and politely die. Or to wander the world as the walking dead: muttering to myself, unheard and unseen, invisible even to my own ears and eyes.

I broke a very deep law by still being here. I was not brought up to survive. 

There are people who trip their children when they are learning to walk. There are people who ridicule their children when they speak or laugh.There are people who sneer at their children when they paint or draw or write a poem. There are people who rape their children when they are just beginning to grow.

Such people treat their children as if they were food, things to be sucked on and chewed on and ultimately consumed. When your role in life is to be eaten, when you are raised like a pig or a cow, the most useful thing you can do is  die.

You are not supposed to graduate from college. But I broke that rule twice! I was the first in my family to earn a BA. I even went on to earn an MA. But for some reason, I felt embarassed about earning those degrees. Almost ashamed. It's as if I had committed a crime by accomplishing something. 

And that's kind of how I felt when I was chosen as an Editor's Pick. I felt ashamed. I felt like some sort of sleazy imposter. "Don't go thinking this means anything. Who do you think you are? Bitch. Whore. People just feel sorry for you. Better stay offa that high horse, missy."

My feral mind, the one who was raised to please her masters, crouches in wait for the day when I'll be served up on a platter like well-done steak or  crispy  bacon. Only then will she be loved in the only way she knows: as an object to be consumed.

My feral mind has no interest in earning my love or in giving me comfort. She's a slave to the cannibals.  She wants desperately to be one with them.

So what do I do with her? How do I live with her? 

I honestly don't think I can. I think I have to let her go. Release her into the woods somewhere and let the cannibals get her. Let them have her. She belongs to them, anyway. She isn't mine. She never was.

And the cannibals were never mine, either. And never will be. God, why does that hurt so much? It's like a knife splitting my chest.

They will never love me. Those five words alone have the power to release me. But I'm terrified. What if the cost of  release is too high? What lives on the opposite shore of all that grief?

Perhaps this: the freedom to express myself for my own pleasure and my own reasons. The freedom to grant no authority to anyone but myself to "pick" me. The freedom to be my own "pick" every day, every moment, for no other reason than that I'm here,  I'm alive, and that by "picking" myself  I am able to be more loving and available and giving to others.

My feral mind is not just a slave to the cannibals; she is a slave to everyone.

I will put her in a pot to make her happy.  I will roast her with carrots and red potatoes.  I will serve her on a platter to whomever wants to eat her. Go ahead. Fill up. She's not mine anymore. Stick a fork into her flesh with your flattery, carve  up her shins with your criticism - it's all the same to her. As long as she's being eaten, she's happy.

As for me, I've got some grieving to do. And after that, some celebrating.

I've decided to pick myself, you see. And that, dear friends, is a GENUINE cause for celebration.