My mother asked me to complete this sentence: “I am a woman who…”. And I am having a horrible time with it. I realize the exercise is to help me define myself, and I am fearful of doing that. What if I’m no one? Or worse, what if I’m no one special?
I really want to be special. Is that wrong?
I am a woman who…
- loves my children more than life,
- wishes to be both exactly like my mother and completely different from her,
- finds comfort in being married,
- smokes and eats for medication,
- spins thoughts so quickly I can’t focus on one,
- bought a car all by myself for the first time last year,
- wants to be on Oprah even though I never watch her show,
- loves the Internet technologies,
- loves to read,
- wishes I could do something important for the world, for other women, for my children, for myself.
- piles instead of files,
- loves animals but isn’t ready yet to love ONE animal – it’s too hard to lose them,
- has trouble defining herself meaningfully,
- wonders how this list is going to help,
- finds her head in her hands with tears on her face for no discernible reason,
- lives in a house with no sunlight,
- hopes for the best but worries anyway,
- accepts everyone except my husband for who they are,
- chooses friends wisely,
- chooses words less wisely,
- wants to be married to this one man who I cannot change,
- is tired of this stupid list.
Whatever. Maybe I’m not letting myself go. I’ll try again after I get my coffee.
This entry is one day out of the journal I kept while I was still in the marriage. The whole thing, in order, is the book: My Abusive Marriage . . . and what i’m doing in it. Or read the first pages if you want to see whether it’s for you.