Sometimes I am overwhelmed by the events of my past. I find myself angry that I have random emotional reactions to everything that reminds me of my husband. It doesn’t seem fair that I am left with the pain, sorrow, regret and ongoing legacy of another person’s decision.
I have said that I am forever changed by the events of 15 April, 2010 — that I am no longer the person that I was prior to that day. What happened to me has irrevocably transformed me into a different person.
But is that true? Does that have to be my reality?
I write my own story. I am not a supporting character in some else’s drama. I am the author and the protagonist, interpreting the actions of others into my own narrative.
This story of loss, emotional chaos and exposed weeping scars is not my story.
This is not my story.
My story is of courage, of persistence, of fighting without faltering to bathe in the limitless well-spring of joy. I am more than my thoughts, more than my body and more than my memories.
My story is now, my story is today. Today I am beautiful, blessed, loved, needed, and a delight to those I open in love to.
I refuse to shut down — even though I may be expected to.
I refuse to tread carefully — even though I may be advised to.
I refuse to stop living — even though death tries its best to colour my world.
I refuse to let my story be classified as a tragedy — even though all humanity may think it one.
I refuse to be fucked up — even though I have every right to be.
Words are my friends and allies and I will no longer let them be stolen from me or dictated by someone else. Everything from here on in is none of his fucking business!
This story is mine and mine alone, and from this moment forward I choose exclusively words of love, gratitude and authenticity.
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