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Creative Writing, Inspiration

Links to Inspire.

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When I was in San Francisco last fall, I did a ton of reading that I meant to share with you all.

Then, somehow, I got caught up in the ebb and flow of daily life back here in Boston and these links went on the back burner.

However, one of my goals for 2017 is to start taking more notice of pieces of writing that really catch my eye; that draw me back to revisit them them a day, or a week, or a month later.

I love when people are able to tell their stories– the things that are the most personal, or even the most painful.  There is just something amazing about telling your truth to the world– about getting the right words together, getting up the courage, and just putting it out there.

So here are a few of pieces of writing that really drew me in, and inspired me to get back to work on my own blog.  (Some of these are not super recent.  I mean what I say about amazing writing being able to draw me back months later!).

In no particular order:

Para Las Fridas: When healing our body is not an option, we can still heal from the inside

Anonymously Autistic: Washing away the alter ego and I’m not normal and that’s okay

Embracing Authenticity: Failure should not be feared because it is necessary to learn and grow and I will now strive for progress, not perfection

The Invisible Warrior: Dear Warrior: A letter to all my friends with CRPS

Life in Slow Motion Blog: 10 Ways to Flood the Pain Map to Reduce Chronic Pain and When pushing forward leads to falling backwards

Fire in Her Loins: One Girl’s Quest to Cure Her Chronic Pelvic Pain

I have more for you guys, but that’s all for now!  Enjoy!

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Creative Writing, Favorites, Inspiration, Uncategorized

A Returning

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“I have been away.

I have often thought of how to begin this blog again after a long hiatus and then more time would pass and there it stood waiting for me to speak, write, and reach out.

The reason for my silence is the same reason for beginning this blog. Living with chronic illness permeates everything we do. It is the scaffolding of which we build each day. It determines our daily plans, what we take on, and what we leave unfinished. As I dedicated each day to doctor’s appointments, physical therapy, medication changes, and rebuilding my life after a health storm, this unfinished blog provided comfort knowing that it was a place for me to return.

As the months passed, I was forced into long stretches of bed rest, breaking from work, my passions, the world, and my voice. This is the cycle, after all, of the chronically ill. It is a sequence of retreat and victory, of silence and stories, and of mining the telos of one’s spirit.  What incites us to account our narrative to others relegates us to silence in other moments in a life lived with chronic illness.

I have to admit that at first my silence was “put upon” me. I was so engulfed in pain, fatigue, and just getting through one hour after another that I had no desire to communicate about the latest health trial. Yet, resignation turned towards choice, as I again reimagined and redesigned a future. It is a truth we face when dealing with an incurable disease that we must rewrite our future story after it is continually malformed by our bodies.

The poet Carmen Tafolla wrote: “I was the fourth ship. Behind Niña, Pinta, Santa María, Lost at sea while watching a seagull, Following the wind and sunset skies, While the others set their charts.” This post is dedicated to the future, to the reciting of a livable future, and to exploring the why in a life filled with medical chaos.

Illness is an invasion of identity. Since living through surgeries, a nine medication regimen, and too many medical procedures, I have searched for an explanation, a pathway, and a satisfactory answer to why. Why did this happen? Why me? I have done everything from pretending that the illness part of my life is nonexistent to studying the mechanisms and pathologies of the body; nonetheless, illness continues to lead its assault.

To live with a chronic degenerative disease one must constantly engage in meaning-making. Why? It is because illness is unremitting and untrustworthy. A medical crisis can topple all that you have worked towards in a mere blink.

Therefore, we are professionals at reconstruction and rebooting our future.  Often times, it is a future tinted by professional and personal sadness. Professional goals wane under the weight of the body often causing an individual to lose their job or relinquish ambitions. Illness demands a personal reimagining of what family looks like sometimes forcing an individual to move in with a family member who subsumes a caregiver role or surrendering the dream of having a family and experiencing parenthood.

Illness fractures identity and makes us feel less complete because completion is continuously interrupted.  I believe searching for the “why me” is not out of anger, jealousy, or pity but out of the attempt to take all these futures interrupted and find fulfillment in a life that no longer looks like the life originally intended.

Chronic illness mandates that the individual who lives with it coat themselves in an extra layer of depth because it is a permanent state and the human mind has forever raised questions about immutability.

I spent the last year in renovation.  It’s frightening; isn’t it?  There’s a trauma processing that must be completed in order to move forward in life.

When I was first diagnosed with endometriosis and a chronic pain condition due to a spinal injury, I had no idea nor was it explained to me that I was going to have to go through a continual cycle of insecurity. I was oblivious to the fact that I was going to have to live my life in a temperamental space.

It is of my opinion that chronic illness patients do not fit easily into the usual experience of loss because our loss is not consistent.  The future is unpredictable and so our stories are discontinued and resumed and this process repeats infinitely.

Thus we are forced to mourn each time and rebuild our futures anew holding our breath again that the house will not collapse with us inside. Our narratives remain disjointed and so without any desire for it we gain a level of complexity that is difficult to communicate and share with others even those we love the most.

I don’t know if there is a way to rid ourselves of this anarchy that illness brings. What I am still learning is that inside this chaos we must pledge to coming out of the other side of it. We must promise to find our voice again.

I have been away but now I am returning.  Each one of us can say that.

Although it may appear like a small triumph, I am proud of my return and I am proud of yours too.”

***

The above post was written by my friend C. over at her blog Para Las Fridas.  I have re-posted it here with her permission because it is quite honestly one of the most amazing accounts of life with chronic illness I have ever read.  From the moment I first read it, I was struck by the way C. managed to put into words aspects of my own experience that I had been afraid to face, much less articulate to myself.

Like the feeling of having lost time, of living according to a completely different calendar than everyone else.  Of knowing I’ve disappeared from the world, for months and years at a time, while life has marched on unrelentingly for everyone else.

The feeling of resurfacing, of returning, without knowing if it’s an illusion, or for how long I’ll be allowed to stay before disappearing again.

The feeling that I’ve become an expert at remaking my identity: after each disappearance and returning, constructing meaning again as best I can, assembling the pieces that make sense, filling in the gaps in a way I hope no one else notices.

C.’s words give me the courage to come on my blog and tell my own story, when I’m afraid it’s been too long, or no one will be able to relate.

I am not the only one who feels this way; I am not the only one who has disappeared and returned.

***

You can check out the rest of C.’s writing at Para Las Fridas!  It is simply incredible.

I also wrote this post outlining some of posts C.’s site that meant the most to me.

Lastly, you can also see what C.’s up to on Twitter.

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Creative Writing, eating disorders, My Story

A Clearing

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So I’ve been clearing out all the old stuff from my storage unit.  Finding so many reminders of all the plans I once had.

The high-heeled boots I bought senior year of high school, right before the Halloween dance.  My friends and I were all going to go as “sexy cops.”  (I know).

My running “spikes,” as our cross-country team called our specialized lightweight racing shoes.

It’s bittersweet, to look back and remember all of the optimism I had towards my goals– goals I would never reach.  Especially when I can recognize that some of those goals were pretty unhealthy.

Why did I need to wear high-heels?  They were only making things worse, as I was developing compartment syndrome.

Why did I need to run?  I truly loved it… but at the same time, I wasn’t truly listening to my body, and ran it into the ground.

So much pressure, to be thin, to be pretty.

So now I’m clearing out my storage unit, and there are just so many clothes.  So many clothes, in just about every size.

My size 2 clothes– the last clothes I bought before my health issues spun out of control and a medication forced me to gain weight.  At the time I thought it was horrible, but now I can see it was a blessing in a disguise.  It took something overpowering, and dramatic, to truly break me out of that way of thinking.

Chronic pain finally pushed the obsession with being thin out of my head.  There was no room for anything else; there was only survival, from one minute to the next.  I’m not sure if anything else could have done that– not without it taking years.

***

But I’ve held on to my old clothes all this time.  I loved them, because they were my way of telling the world, at 16, that I was an adult.  (An adult that wanted to dress just like Buffy!).

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My outfits, at the time, felt like works of art.  Handbags, sweaters, dresses– everything perfect.  My mom had picked out all of my clothes for me as a kid, and in the cutthroat world of high school girlhood, it took me a while to define my style.

Once I did, my clothes became my way of making a statement.  I discovered that the better I looked, the more power I had in the social world of high school.   If I looked perfect, it was harder for other girls to make fun of me.  My clothes became my armor.

When I gained weight at first (right after high school ended), I held on to all my old things because I thought I’d eventually be a size 2 again.  Then, once I realized I never actually wanted to be a size 2 again, I continued to keep them simply because it felt strange to part with them.

They’d helped me to define myself as an adult.  At one point in time, they’d protected me.

And they’d been waiting for me for so long, like a lost bookend, marking where I could find the life I’d been waiting to come back to when things finally got better.

I wasn’t ready, until now, to let them go.

But I don’t need or want that life anymore.  I no longer feel like I need to wear high heels in order to be a true girl.  I don’t want to put on eyeliner every morning like it’s war paint.

And I don’t need to weigh 115 pounds, or to be able to see the outline of my hip bones perfectly, in order to be attractive.

I just want to be me.

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My Story

The road to physical therapy school

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It occurred to me recently that I really haven’t talked much about my progress towards becoming a physical therapist on this blog.

So, if you’re curious, here’s my deal:

I have a Bachelor’s degree in the humanities.  My concentration was social theory, with an emphasis on gender studies.

My goals, when I was in college, were focused in a pretty different direction than the path I’m on now: I wanted to study social policy, and travel abroad working for various non-profits and human rights agencies.  I also wanted to become a psychotherapist.

I started down that road immediately out of college, working at a mental health agency so that I could gain experience before grad school.

Before this, I’d already had a lot of struggles with chronic pain, and had to have surgery for compartment syndrome.  Yet after college, I’d managed to reach some kind of holding pattern where pain didn’t cause me to miss work.  That was, until the awful winter of 2010, when a few things happened in a brief span of time that caused my pain levels to flare way up.

That was my breaking point– when I tried, anew, to get answers.  Finally, after months of searching, I found my physical therapist Tim, who had studied pain neurophysiology education with Neil Pearson.

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Ultimately, I was so inspired by everything I learned from Tim that it led me to consider becoming a physical therapist.

I’d always found physical therapy to be a fascinating field.  As a high school runner, I’d had a few serious injuries where I really needed PT to get up and moving again.   I had formed some great relationships with my therapists, and hung on every word they said.  A part of me was always a little bit sad when they told me I was doing well enough that I didn’t need to come back.  I would have gladly come back back every day, just to hang out and learn.

When I was a freshman in high school, I partially tore my hip flexor during a cross-country race and was on crutches for months.  It was a physical therapist who helped me overcome my fear and eventually start running again.

Then, when I was 19 and had surgery for compartment syndrome, it was a physical therapist who got me back up and moving again.  While I’ll always be grateful to the surgeon who fixed my legs, my PT was the one who gave me the confidence to actually start using them again.

And now, when my life had ground to a complete halt at age 25 because of constant, debilitating pain, it was a physical therapist who gave me my life back again.

I’d always had so much appreciation for PT’s.  Now, the idea dawned on me: why don’t I try to become one?

***

Growing up, I didn’t really consider myself that much of a science person.  Looking back, I think a lot of that has to do with the environment at my school, and how our science classes were taught.

Once I started looking into becoming a PT– taking classes, shadowing practicing PT’s– I realized I always had been interested in health science, and exercise physiology, and human anatomy.  It had just taken a different form.

I’d always wanted to do the best thing for my body.  I loved when my running coaches talked about strengthening, building endurance, the benefits of stretching.

And I’d always been interested in nutrition, and being healthy overall.

It’s just that when I was younger, I didn’t have the healthiest mindset, and took some of these interests too far.  But my eating disorder was not all of me– it was a snapshot of a specific place I was in, at a certain point in time, at a certain age.  Although I had some distorted beliefs, that does not mean I wasn’t also genuinely interested in health and fitness at the same time.

The difference is that now, I am able to come at it in a much healthier, stable, and more grounded manner, and know that I will be able to help others with similar struggles.

***

Five years later, I can say that I ended up loving all of my prerequisite classes, and I’m so glad I made the decision to take them.

It’s been an incredibly long road.  You see, some of the classes I needed to take had prerequisites of their own.  At the same time, due to my SI joint issues, there were periods of time where I found it incredibly difficult to walk, drive, or even stand up for more than a few minutes.

Despite of all of this, I’m finally at the point now where I’ve basically taken all of the classes I need in order to apply to PT school.  (I might need to take one or two more, depending on specific programs I might try to get into, but most of my bases are covered).

And honestly, I’m so glad I made this decision.  I realized that, while the humanities will always be my first love, I am also a science person, and have been all along.   I couldn’t see it at the time, but I know it now.

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Favorites, Inspiration, mindfulness, My Story

San Francisco, Revisited

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It’s so interesting for me to go back to San Francisco.

As you may remember, I spent a few weeks in SF back in June, following a good friend’s wedding in Napa Valley.

I actually just wrapped up another trip out there. I spent most of September in SF, staying with a friend and trying to investigate whether I’d eventually want to move there for work and/or grad school.

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The city of San Francisco is symbolic for me, for a number of reasons.

Back in 2005, one of my friends from high school (CA) and I had planned to travel to the Bay Area and visit our friend Karen, who was attending Stanford University at the time.

Our trip was actually planned for the same time of year– September.

However, I’d just had my surgery for compartment syndrome that spring, and at the last minute, I freaked out and canceled my plane ticket. After all I’d heard about San Francisco’s hills, I just didn’t think my legs were ready, and I didn’t want to take a chance. So CA flew out by herself, and I stayed behind to mend.

I was 19 at the time, and although I didn’t know it yet, I actually had somewhat of a long road ahead of me. As I’ve mentioned in previous posts, I didn’t travel at all in the first half of my 20’s, and it was only in the second half that I started to ease back into it with local trips, such as camping in the White Mountains of New Hampshire.

As most of you probably know, I developed my problems with central sensitization (CS) around that same time, shortly after my leg surgery. I definitely don’t think the surgery caused the CS, but as something that the body perceives as a “trauma,” it may have been one of the precipitating events.

I’ll talk more about why I developed CS in the future, but for now, what I want you to know is that for the next five years, I didn’t travel at all. The second five years, I got back into it slowly, but only local trips, and not by myself.

So now, at 31, after everything I’ve been through: compartment syndrome surgery, discovering pain neurophysiology education, struggling to heal my sacroiliac joints…. it feels almost like I’m living in a dream world. To be able to travel to San Francisco and walk around to my heart’s content– it’s like I was transported to a parallel universe.

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Here was the moment when it really hit me, how far I’d come:

I was walking from my friend’s house to the gym, and I ended up walking up some really huge hills. Like, gigantic hills– the kind you think of, when you think San Francisco.

And I was just doing it. I wasn’t sightseeing– I hadn’t set out to “walk the hills.” I was just trying to get from one place to another, like anyone. Like a local.

And it was okay.

I mean, if anything, I got a little bit of a wake-up call about maybe needing to do more cardio. But after all the years I’ve spent only being able to work out in a pool, it was such an amazing feeling to be moving through the world, as fast as I wanted, feeling my heart pumping. I was free.

It was a feeling I’d forgotten– to truly push my cardiovascular system to its limits with each footstep, out in the wind, out in the sunshine. For the past few years, I only got to experience that feeling within the safe, weightless environment of the pool.  While I am so grateful for my pool workouts, my trek on this day brought back a form of muscle memory. With the thud of each footstep, I was awake. I was back.

The thing is, this isn’t really meant to be a post about physical accomplishment. Instead, it’s about my unexpectedly “Returning” to an aspect of life that I was prepared to live without.

I had made peace with not being able to move the way I wanted. Not being able to travel, and more or less being stuck in place, taught me to try to always notice the beautiful little things around me. I’m not saying I succeeded all the time, but it was a skill that I worked at, and I got better at it.

I had to learn to savor the little things– the colors of the leaves in fall, the glitter of sunlight filtering through the trees, the taste of really good coffee– because it was the only way to make up for the things I’d lost.

Over time, it started to come more naturally. Maybe I was just getting into a better place in my life, emotionally. Maybe I was just growing up. Or maybe it was all of these factors.

But the point is, it happened. I learned to live without running, without traveling, without feeling free in a geographical sense, because I realized there were more important ways to feel free.

Now that that kind of freedom has come back to me, it’s like an unexpected bonus. And I view it gratefully.

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My Story

Newfound possibility

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I’ve been away from my blog for the past month, and I have so much to tell you all. I took what was supposed to be a five-day trip to a wedding in California, and turned it into an amazing, impromptu two and a half week stay.

To be honest, I was really scared to take this trip. Since I first developed health issues at age 19, I have really not traveled very much at all. It’s only been in the past four years or so that I’ve started to open myself back up to small weekend trips around New England.

But California? I had to go… one of my oldest friends was getting married.

So I went. But I really didn’t want to.

I hadn’t traveled in so long that everything felt rusty. I’d clung to the same routine for so long, hoping my pain and SI joint issues wouldn’t get worse… and now, everything was about to change.

Now that I look back, I can’t believe I was so scared of a five-day trip. It’s not like I was traveling to the middle of nowhere. I was going to Napa Valley and San Francisco… two places that are hardly without amenities. I had just gotten so used to the idea that travel was not for me, that I felt as though I was traveling to a foreign country.

So I went.. and everything turned out fine. Better than fine. The wedding was in Napa, and then after that I spent two nights at my friend Karen’s apartment in San Francisco. We were having such an amazing time catching up, Karen finally getting to show me the sights and sounds of the city she’d been telling me about for ten years. After one day, we decided I should switch my plan ticket and stay. It’s something that felt so out of character for me… but I did it.

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It ended up being a great adventure, and in some ways… I feel as though I re-joined the modern world. (It feels weird to tell you all this, but it’s the truth). My health issues had forced me to stay still in one place for so long, that it seemed so much had passed me by.

Now, it was time for bootcamp. I had to remember how to book a plane ticket; how to check a bag and get through security. How to handle a rental car. I got an AirBnb account; I got Uber; I got Lyft. I had to navigate us all throughout Napa Valley for the various wedding events, and then back down to San Francisco.

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I had to put so many of my fears aside, because there simply wasn’t time for them. And I realized that (apart from the extreme amounts of money I spent on the trip) most of my fears turned out to be unfounded.

To be fair, I had some amazing friends to help me. My friend Karen is amazing, and so is my friend Amanda, who flew with me from Boston to be my plus one at the wedding. Part of the reason I asked Amanda to come – other than, of course, wanting her company– is that I was afraid I would need a lot of help physically, dealing with my suitcase and stuff like that.

But it was all okay, and if anything, I realized I really didn’t need Amanda’s help as much as I thought. Now, I actually think I could have made the trip alone (although I obviously still would have wanted to have Amanda come for the company!).

The lesson I’m taking away from this is that sometimes, change can be good. A new experience, particularly one that we fear, can be a great way for us to open ourselves to new possibilities, and to learn things we didn’t even know we didn’t know.

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Now, I’m not suggesting that things are always going to be easy, or that all those of us with health problems have to do is wave our magic wand, think positive, and hop on a plane, guaranteed a great trip.

There’s a lot that has gone into getting me to this point. Learning the right exercises to strengthen my body, and learning the right techniques to help calm my nervous system. My life is opening back up again, but it’s only been because of the time I’ve spent being mindful of how I live, and carry myself, and remembering to work with my body instead of against it.

This is why I feel so powerfully about some of the things I share on my blog– when you have chronic pain or fibromyalgia, it is possible for things to change.

I’m so glad I took this trip, and am so excited to see where my newfound sense of possibility takes me. I hope you will all stay tuned!

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Creative Writing, Inspiration, mindfulness, My Story, Sacroiliac Joint

Lessons from an amazing weekend

I had a crazy, fun-filled weekend. The kind of weekend I haven’t had in at least five years. 4634683686_d575b661b5_o

Five years ago, my friends and I went to a “tango night” at a local restaurant.  It was an amazing evening.  The teachers were professional dancers, and a lot of the other students were from other countries.  There was such a fun, friendly, open vibe to the night.

The evening started out with a free tango lesson, and then afterwards, the dance floor opened up to anyone who wanted to come and dance.  Some truly amazing dancers showed up.  I was in my element, starting to picture myself traveling through Argentina.

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But as the night went, on my knees started to hurt. At first, I tried to ignore the pain, but it got worse and worse until eventually, I had to sit down and watch everyone else for the last two hours.

“We’ll go back,” my friends and I all said at the end of the night. I thought I’d fix my knee problems, and organize another group outing in a few months.

***

Of course, it never ended up happening.  People got busy; the friend who organized it the first time moved away.

And I ended up spending the next five years having trouble walking.  My knee problems got a lot worse before they got better, and the months I spent limping and carrying my weight unevenly led me to develop the SI joint issues I still have today.  Basically, it’s been five years since I could stand, or walk, or dance without so much as a thought.

***

Yet somehow, this weekend, everything clicked. I didn’t plan it– I just got caught up in the flow of things, and went where my friends went.

I guess all my strengthening exercises are starting to really pay off, because somehow, I went out dancing Friday and Saturday night. Friday night, I was in one of those loud, crowded bars I normally hate, but the band was actually amazing, and I found myself out on the dance floor with the group.

And then Saturday? Well, it wasn’t tango, but some friends went to a salsa night. I didn’t make it in time for the lesson, but I did make it out onto the dance floor afterwards. I wouldn’t say I wowed anyone with my salsa skills, but I also didn’t need to sit down once the entire night.

But here’s what really shocked me: I was back to where, physically, I had left off five years ago. But nothing about it felt monumental or life-changing.

What was life-changing? Everything it took for me to be okay, in the past five years, when I couldn’t have a weekend like this. All of the restraint it took; all of the patience I was forced to cultivate.

Don’t get me wrong– I haven’t stayed at home for five years, I’ve gone out– but it was never without compromise, never without having to constantly be aware of the nearest chair.

I’ve had to make peace with the fact that I’d be sitting by myself when an amazing song came on and everyone else wanted to be on the dance floor. I’ve had to perfect the art of looking calm, confident, and busy doing things on my cell phone.

***

I’ve been through so much pain, frustration, and effort with my SI joint, I can’t even tell you. As much time as I’ve spent actually exercising, I’ve spent about three times as much time trying to learn about the problem. Researching the joint, consulting different doctors, chiropractors, and PT’s. Learning what movements not to do, which has been just as important as finding the right exercises.

That’s the thing– and I think anyone with chronic pain and health issues knows this– mind over matter doesn’t work. And actually, it’s counterproductive to push yourself into doing something that isn’t good for you.

You have to listen to your body: fine-tune your balancing act of when to push and when to rest. You have to become still.

***

Something that’s helped me immeasurably is learning how to meditate. I actually don’t meditate every day, but learning how to be in the moment in that way has really spilled over into my daily life.

For me, meditation is like an experiment. You take everything that’s bothering you– whether it’s physical pain, or emotional, or stress and anxiety– and you just tell yourself, “Yes, this is all happening… but what if I was okay, anyway?” The problems are all still there, but just for a few minutes, you stop trying to fight them. They exist, but you see that underneath it all, you actually are okay.

Even after I’d only had this experience a few times, I felt as though it began to change the way I saw the world. I just felt calmer; more at peace. Somehow, it started to feel easier for me to notice the good in the world.

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There are different ways to grow as a person. You can go on a journey through the world– you can travel, meet people, and see fascinating things.

But you can also journey inside of yourself, and that can transform your perspective just as much.

I have had to learn how to find peace in the moment. I haven’t had the option of going out and losing myself in the way people describe when they talk about travel. I’ve never backpacked through Europe… I’ve never even backpacked through the White Mountains, like just about everyone else I know.

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But I have been transformed, no doubt.

It’s tempting for me to try to compare myself to other people, to suggest that maybe I have actually learned more by being forced to stay still, compared to people who have been able to leave their problems behind by going out and doing things. But that would be wrong– I don’t know what journeys people are on, or what they are learning.

But I can compare myself to my past self, and say that the things it takes to make me happy now are very different than the things I used to think I needed to be happy.

That night that I was forced to sit down at Tango Night, I thought I was losing a piece of myself that I wouldn’t get back until I could come back and dance again.

Now I see that I didn’t lose anything at all.  In fact, I gained something.

And that is a lesson I’m grateful to have learned.

***

Credits for the photos in this post:

 

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Creative Writing, Inspiration

Reading List: Vulnerability

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This is the question that has consumed me recently: how do people take their most precious and guarded memories, and spin them into stories, unfurling them to the world?

It seems so easy when other people do it– when you read a famous, heart-wrenching novel for class, and analyze its themes. “I could do that,” you say. “Someday maybe I will.”

But it’s so different when you begin to try– shockingly different. In real life, I haven’t begun– I’ve only hinted at my most personal stories. I’ve only begun to write them and tell them in my head.

In the morning I wake up too early, in a panic, short of breath. “What have I done?” I gasp. Then I relax. I haven’t actually written anything yet; haven’t hit publish.

I have so much respect for those who have. I’ve always loved and looked up to writers, but now I do so with a respect that is so much more real now that I’ve begun to consider the task myself.

So here, my readers, are a few things I’ve read recently that have inspired me:

Rian Kerfoot, Truth and Cake:

Mary Gelpi, Fibromy-Awesome: Getting Clean Real talk from a girl with fibromyalgia who talks about how, somedays, bathing is just not on the agenda. I’ve been there.

Bianca Sparacino: “You Are Not for Everyone.”

Beauty Beyond Bones: I love her whole blog, but I’ve recently discovered her early posts, which send chills through me. I so want to tell my story like this. (I was never hospitalized for my eating disorder, but her words resonate on so many levels).

Sade Andria Zabala: I discovered her a few months ago when I was heart-broken, and her words ripped me apart more and then healed me at the same time.

All of these pieces of writing are breathtaking — check them out!