Identity Crisis

The first thing I remember about October 6, 2006 was entering church and seeing one, lone, beautiful flower wreath.

I’m not sure how Jeff’s October 6, 2001 wedding portrait got there. I assume I brought it, since it had been hanging in our home.

In that little space of wall next to the front door, I saw his love every time I left the house for work. Mine was there, too. Jeff saw it every time he left the house for the store.

The placement? Prophetically, romantically poetic now. I left Jeff’s photo on the wall until I moved out of our house, 4 years later. But, I took mine down right away. I wasn’t that person, anymore. I still had the name, but I wasn’t a wife.

After we were married, my father inquired, when I was going to change my email address for work? I tried way before he ever asked. Corporately, it wasn’t allowed. To this day, my maiden name remains in the root. But, I’m not that person anymore, either.

Although, it’s painful to admit, I’ve (more recently than not) typed or scrawled my signature on more than a few communications with my prior surname. Last week, I scribbled a return address on an envelope that way, too.

Why?  Dammed if I know.

Maybe I should carefully consider this. Maybe it means something.

I’ve been undefined for years; unacknowledged and unreasonably delayed. So, I suppose, it’s time to declare:

identity crisis.

Quote for the Week: