No More Room at the Inn

Someone I have never met has taken up permanent residency in my head. She’s in there all day long, 365 days a year, 24 hours a day. She’s all around me. In the house I share with my husband and three girls. She’s in my closets, so much so that I have no place to put away my own things. Her bike hangs in my garage. Her cookbooks take up space in my kitchen. I’m sick of her. Am I allowed to write that? She is after all dead.  I’ve only recently begun to realize how much of my energy is consumed by her. How much my own self-esteem has been chipped away by my constant inner monologue.  So sick of hearing how sweet and kind and loved, blah, blah, blah. Not to toot my own horn, but it takes a pretty great person to take on the tremendous strain of loving and marrying a widower. Add taking on the role of mother to his daughter and I also become a candidate for sainthood too, don’t I?? When did I become this insecure? So here I am. A place I swore I would never go; the world of blogging. Hoping to purge some of this rage and insecurity, find some answers and maybe help someone else whose in the same boat. Off We Go…

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About WonderWoman

Work in progress
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