From Huffpost
Dating, in particular, was out of the question during my first two years of widowhood. Oh, I might have accepted a gift of food had it been offered from somebody like Denise’s platonic widower, but the thought of pursuing a true relationship made me anxious. Zombie anxious. Never again, I vowed, would I view attachment as essential to my well-being. It became vitally important to subscribe to a definition of happiness rooted in remaining alone. If that meant giving up sex for now, so be it. I couldn’t risk kick-starting endorphins that might make me feel attached.
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