WTF does that even mean?
I was accused of trying to be the “perfect” widow – go to all the widow camps, connect with all the widowed people, have all the widowed friends, blog about what it’s like to be a widow, hold on tight to the memory and love of a dead guy…. ?
I *have not* dealt with the death of my husband. Not in any *meaningful* way.
I have adjusted to the pain and the grief. I have found joy again. I have lost that joy. It still sits there, the pain and grief, snuggled up just behind my heart, waiting for a moment I least expect it to claw it’s way to the surface again.
I am living a full, rich life. I am living it alone, but it’s me and my boys against the world.
So WTF? What does it mean to be a “perfect” widow?
I’m not perfect at anything. I wasn’t a perfect wife. I wasn’t a perfect girlfriend. I am not a perfect mother. I fail to be perfect at as a sister, a daughter, a friend, an employee, a co-worker or a human being in general.
I am not perfect.
I am just me.
“I myself, am made entirely of flaws, stitched together with good intentions.” – Augusten Burroughs
I am just me. I am broken. But I am healing.
And I will not deny a part of me, a life that was forced upon me, an event that irrevokably changed me.
I am a mother, I am a sister, I am a daughter, I am an employee. And I am a widow.
It is a badge I wear with pride. I loved someone until his last breath. And that, my widowed, non-widowed, about to become widowed friends… is a magical fairy tale they said did not exist… I loved him as long as he lived.
And I will love him as long as *I* live.