Really real life post.

I’m lucky to be a widow.

That’s a really strange sentence to type out.  A really strange thing to say, but yeah, I feel lucky sometimes, for one reason.

My perspective.

It’s said in the widow community, we wouldn’t wish this on anyone, but we’d wish our perspective on the world.

I’ve realized how few things are a life and death situation.  Sometimes my brain and my mental illness hijacks the process with anxiety, but mostly I’m able to step back and see that a lot of things truly don’t matter.

I spent a lot of time getting upset over little things.  I start to get upset because someone didn’t hold up their end of the bargain.  A receptionist didn’t do this, or someone didn’t give me the right information, or someone didn’t put something away right and dammit look at how that put me out today.  I’m honestly a judgmental, grumpy old person stuck in the body of someone who tries not to be all judgy because that just doesn’t look good.

But mostly, when given a bit of time and space, I let it go.

Because if they died tomorrow, I wouldn’t care about that stuff.  If I were dying tomorrow, I wouldn’t care about that stuff.

Life is too damn short.

Sometimes it’s harder than other times.  Old habits are ingrained and become pathways that the brain naturally follows.  Sometimes I have to remind myself to breathe and let it go, that it wasn’t that big of a deal.

But the benefit of being a widow is that I know the outcome for all of us is death.  Some sooner, hopefully later, but none of us get out alive and do I really want to spend time in my life upset over stupid shit that isn’t going to change anything.

Perspective is a wonderful thing, even when it’s put into slightly morbid terms.

Let it go, let it go . . . .