I have a story I tell everyone.
Its a story that puts me in a box
It tells everyone about me without me having to say it myself
Its a story I tell over and over again to whoever will listen.
It’s become my identity.
Who I want to be seen as because it brings me sympathy.
I’ve always loved sympathy.
I was unloved as a child and figured out pretty quickly that
being ill brought me attention which I mistook for love.
Smypathy for love.
And I am ready to cast it off.
That’s my intention.
Whats my story.
Im a widow with four children. I was widowed at 46 years of age.
Its the truth.
But its not my truth any longer
I no longer want sympathy as a substitute for love.
I want the real deal or nothing at all.
I intend telling nobody I am a widow any more
I will not speak of it any longer
For one whole year I will tell nobody
In one year I will look back and see if its made any difference
Im leaving space for real love
Not attention disguised as love.
Im living with agency.