Tragic Connections

I made a decision to try updating twice a week now, as I have three blogs ready to roll and six other ideas.  I’ve been forcing myself to write daily so it seems like the dam is cracking a bit and the ideas are gushing forth.  I will be posting on Thursday as well as Monday, or at least trying to.  Anyway…my depression kicked my butt this past week, and I want to talk about it, because it came at me alongside a real tragedy.

Firstly, I am a news junkie, and I particularly love local news.  I watch it morning and night.  I have a favorite channel (WIVB) and favorite anchors.  I even like the sports segments.  The point is, I watch local news a lot, as well as national, but they don’t really come into this story much.  Anyway, one of the super cute things about my husband is that he gets emotional at the fluff pieces at the end.  He loves a Vet on an Honor Flight, a Make-a-Wish kid going to Disneyland, or a cat being rescued from a tree by a local firefighter.  His rational is that there is so many terrible things on the news, that these little endcaps give him hope.  This makes him emotional, as he himself does not come from a very hopeful background. 

On the flip side, it’s the hard stories that get me. My life held plenty of hope (despite depression’s attempts to prove otherwise) and it is the painful stories that make me feel something.  Let’s use Philando Castile as an example.  At 9:06pm on July 16th, 2016, I was puking blood in the back of an ambulance and wondering what the hell was happening to me while he choking out his last words.  I didn’t know this until the news a few days later, which I watched from my hospital bed.  I clearly remember my EMT saying it was 9:06 when they picked me up.  I clearly remember CNN telling me it was 9:06 when Castile said “I wasn’t reaching for it.”  I burst into tears over this man that I did not know, dying so unjustly, connected to me only by one minute in the span of human existence.

Monday morning I wasn’t feeling so good.  I had not taken my Celexa for two days, as I was waiting on a prescription to be filled and totally miscounted how much time I had in which to fill it.  So, all weekend I was fine, because I have my other two psych meds going for me and I was keeping busy.  Then Monday evening, shortly after I picked up my pills, I started having brain zaps.

When one has been on a certain antidepressant for a long time, one experiences some fun side effects when off it.  Brain zaps may not be the technical term, but that’s as close as I can describe the feeling of my brain literally short-circuiting in my head.  It feels like your brain is vibrating, and there’s an actual “zzzz” noise.  This is followed by extreme and debilitating depression and anxiety.  See, Celexa is my wonder drug, and I’ve been on that or its sister Lexapro for over ten years.  So, a couple days without it can wreak havoc.  Tuesday morning, I was feeling better.  No zaps, no anxiety, no depression, until I turned on the news.

See, Monday morning there was a story that kind of touched me but I assumed would be resolved.  A toddler was found sleeping in a box on a porch on Potomac Ave. in Buffalo.  Sad to say, this isn’t the most unusual thing.  Over the past year I can think of at least three incidents in the city where a child was found wandering.  The police were hopeful that he had meandered off in the night and his parents would certainly come forward for him.  They were unable to figure out his name, and when asked his mother’s name he replied “mommy.”  By that evening’s broadcast, they had not received any leads, and no one had reported a missing child.

But then on Tuesday morning, there was a story about a burned-out car being found on Tonawanda St. with human remains inside, less than a mile from where the boy was found.  It was discovered the previous evening.  The woman who found the boy on her porch said he was talking about a car and fire: “The car was burning up,” he kept saying.  The police were looking for a connection.  Three women in Florida had contacted the police to say that they believed the boy was their relative and that his parents and him were on a road trip.  They had not been able to reach them.

On Tuesday nights broadcast, they showed the boy’s grandmother, who flew up from Florida.  She said that she hasn’t heard from his parents in over 48 hours and that they were on a road trip with a friend, likely to Niagara Falls.  She pleaded with CPS to return the boy, named Noelvin, to his family.  Still no leads on the car.

Wednesday morning, they showed the boy’s grandfather in Florida, praying that it wasn’t his son in the car.  They reported that the grandmother would finally see Noelvin.  This morning they reported that he has seen his family but remains in CPS custody.  Police say that it will be some time before they figure out who was in the burned-out car.

It’s a horrific story and I am so hopeful that the two are not connected, but I have a feeling they are, in the way that I usually have feelings that turn out to be true.  I cried over this poor little boy and his parents.  I felt that same connection.  This time it wasn’t blood and guts at 9:06, but I used to live on Tonawanda St.  I was a happy and carefree little kid on that street, playing at the playground, walking to the library, and visiting the shops that had dogs who came to work with their owners (there were several back then.)  It has changed greatly over the years.  Riverside/Black Rock, the area of the city in question, used to be a nice little immigrant neighborhood.  Then it became a little rougher.  Then it was a lot rougher, and we moved to the suburbs.  There’s some revitalization going on now, but finding a burned-out car ‘round those parts isn’t exactly out of the question.  I hate thinking that this horrible thing happened to this family on a street I used to love. 

I don’t know what the results of this story will be.  While they wait for forensics, the grandmother is trying to get custody of the boy, and waiting for answers.  I wait with her, not knowing her, not having any connection to this case besides a street I used to live on when I was Noelvin’s age.  Maybe it’s the little connections that affect me the most.

Update: After I posted this, on Thursday evening broadcast, police confirmed that the burned-out car did indeed belong to Noelvin’s family. There is video of two men with gas cans leading him away from the scene. Police have said the remains of two people are in the car, further deepening the mystery as there are three missing adults that were traveling with Noelvin. Police are looking for help in identifying the two men with gas cans.


You Forgot the Funny

Sometimes something gets stuck in my craw and I can’t shake it.  Sometimes a whole week goes by before it’s out of my head.  Sometimes longer.  Sometimes it’s something stupid.  Sometimes it isn’t.  Today, it’s comedians.

I love stand-up comedy.  I have always loved it, since I was a little girl secretly watching through the slats of our bannister while my parents viewed Comic Relief on HBO.  I didn’t get half the jokes but I loved Robin, Billy, and Whoopi from all the family-friendly movies they did.  I remember hearing them swear and being shocked, but also finding it funny.  This was my first instance with humor being risqué, but hilarious to me.

When Comedy Central became a thing, I was thrilled.  I begged dad to buy it, because in the early days it wasn’t included with our cable subscription.  He refused, but I looked for any opportunity to watch it at a friends or my grandma’s house. (For some reason the city had it, not the suburbs.)  Eventually it was included in our cable package, and I would stay up on the phone with Jaime on Friday nights watching Comedy Central Presents, and having my first experiences with stand-up that I didn’t have to sneak to watch.  It was pretty much PG-13, so it wasn’t until they started doing late night specials that I saw more racy comedians.  And I loved them all.  I would laugh hysterically.  Kevin and I made a habit of interjecting our horror movie night with comedians.  Mark and I watch every Netflix special we can.

Which brings me to my gripe.

I tell you of my love of comedy so that you understand that yes, I do have a sense of humor.  I am not easily offended by jokes; or rather, I wasn’t.  Lately, it’s been a little disappointing on the comic front.  First of all, there’s peeps like Louis CK, who is now, to me, irrelevant.  I don’t want to hear your jokes, sir, as all I can think about now is you waving your business about.  Now, this may be an instance of a personal life getting in the way of professional life, and I’m not super big on people losing their jobs due to their personal life, but this dude did bring it into the workplace.  So, goodbye.  I don’t care who you are, you can’t be waving your dick around the office.

Then there’s Aziz.  I started his special and heard his side of the story, and I maintain that the man had a bad date.  Yes, I am a woman, a feminist, and a card-carrying Democrat, but I can’t hate the man for a shitty pickup move during a date.  His special, however, bored me.  I feel like he was holding back due to his experiences over the past year or so.  I couldn’t finish it.  This was the first of many.

Dave Chappelle.  I love Dave Chappelle.  I think he’s a comic genius.  And I’m not even mad at him for his “edgy” jokes.  They just weren’t funny, Dave.  I’m not outraged.  I know comics need to push envelopes.  I get that, and I like that about comedy, usually. (If Mark reads this he will object to that sentence as I truly cannot stand Anthony Jeselnik for that exact reason.  But hey, every rule has an exception.)  Anyway, it just didn’t bring the laughs.  Yes, I disagreed with some of his statements, but I wasn’t laughing because it was an empty act. 

And finally, the one that got me writing about this in the first place.  Bill Burr.  I love Bill Burr.  I love F is for Family, I love his specials, I love when he’s on podcasts.  I have always found him amusing even though I do take slight offense at the occasional joke.  Still, I maintain that it is all in good humor, and do not let that get to me.  Except the other night, when it got to me.

First it was some generalizations about women.  Ok, haha we all like the mall.  Then it was more generalizations.  Then it was a good ten minutes of generalizations, some bordering on misogynistic, all unfunny because they had been done before.  Not because they were borderline offensive, mind you…I’d just heard variations of the same joke already.  Any comic who ever made fun of a woman made the same jokes Bill Burr did.  But that wasn’t what got me.  It was one little vocabulary mistake.

Do you know what the definition of feminism is?  Bill Burr does not. 
fem·i·nism noun

  1. the advocacy of women’s rights on the basis of the equality of the sexes.

He did a good ten minutes on how “male feminists” are wishy-washy, little-dicked, poser-pussies.  I was watching this with two men who found it hilarious, despite the fact that neither would ever dare look me in the eye and tell me they thought I deserved less than them.  Hubs, one of these men, is indeed a feminist and has proclaimed such on various occasion.  Yet here he is, laughing about “male feminists” likely because there’s another guy in the room.  Who was maybe doing the exact same thing?  Both forgot, of course, about the woman in the room.

PS I use quotations for “male feminist” because there’s no such thing.  You’re either a feminist or you’re not.  Just because you’re a dude and scared of the prefix “fem” doesn’t change the meaning of the goddamn word.  Put your big boy pants on.  Sheesh.

So, I turned it off.  Not because it wasn’t funny; because it was flat-out incorrect.  It was promoting nonsense, and not the fun kind that I like to see when watching comedians.  This whole experience made me wonder if the older I get, the less sense of humor I have.  There are many things I don’t find funny anymore.  It reminds me of a quote, I’m not sure by who or what it is exactly, but it goes to the tune of this: “We know better now, so we’re trying to do better now.”  So why aren’t comics?  You can be funny without attacking groups of people.  You can be humorous and edgy without generalizations.  And you should look at the audience you may lose if you cross too many boundaries.

Will I boycott these comics?  No.  That’s not how I roll.  They have freedom of speech and are some of the only people who say what we’re all thinking.  But sometimes no one is thinking that anymore, and that’s when the jokes become stale.

I’ve trashed a lot of Netflix comedians here, but I would like to give a shout out to Dave Attell and Jeff Ross.  I liked Last Call with Dave Attell a lot when I was younger, but never really enjoyed his stand-up.  I always thought Jeff Ross was super annoying, as well.  But then last night we watched Bumping Mics on Netflix and I was wrong on all accounts.  Those two are super funny together.  And even when they make an “edgy” joke, I laugh at it, because they’re doing it right.  So, I suggest you check that out.

Anyway, that’s my rant for today.  I’m sure another will brew up soon.

World Suicide Prevention Day

I know I just updated yesterday, but today is World Suicide Prevention Day, so here we are.

In case you’re new and don’t know me, I am almost constantly trying to raise funds for suicide prevention through the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention.  Right now, I am on a 4-month hiatus, but be sure that come January sign-up I will be back, begging for your pocket change.  In the meantime, let’s talk about suicide, shall we?

Some people are scared of that word, due to the stigma that surrounds mental illness in pretty much all forms.  Suicide is scary, especially when you consider the fact that literally everyone has a chance of dying from it.  It has no requirements and can affect anyone at any time.  There are many reasons people commit suicide, but I’m not going to delve into speculation about the lives of other people.  I can only speak to myself. 

For me, suicide is the final and most tragic symptom of depression.  People who aren’t depressed simply do not kill themselves.  You may argue “what if said person has a terminal illness and decides to go out on their own terms?”  That person is depressed, fool.  You don’t get a terminal illness without a healthy dose of depression.  “What if said person was a drug addict and overdosed and didn’t MEAN to kill themselves?”  Drug addiction is a sign of depression.  Happy people don’t do drugs. 

Moral of the story?  Depression kills.

Close to 800,000 people die due to suicide every year.  That’s a body every 40 seconds.  Every 40 seconds, someone on the planet decided they have had enough, and ends it.  It’s a sad statistic, but one I remember.

Recently, I spoke to a friend who has had some suicidal moments in her life.  We both have Major Depressive Disorder and often talk frankly and openly about such things.  I asked her about fears, for my previous blog, and she couldn’t come up with anything that fit the scope of the article, but she did mention large bodies of water.  She fears them because she doesn’t trust herself.  I can understand that-I fear the bottle of Xanax I keep on the top shelf in the bathroom.  It’s the reason I don’t have guns in the house, for chrissake-fear that we will snap, and end it, is real and with us every day.

Many years ago, I went to the beach.  There was a pier that everyone was jumping off, maybe a 25-foot drop.  I’m a fairly strong swimmer and I don’t fear heights so I literally leapt at the chance to jump off this pier.  The problem is, as soon as I hit the water, the tide went out.  I started swimming back to shore, but felt my arms and legs get heavier.  I noticed that I wasn’t making much headway, and was drifting further out.  I tried to grab hold of the pier but only bashed my side against it as the waves picked up.  Finally, I was underwater, sinking, thinking “Gee, this is peaceful.  This would be a good way to go.  If I die right now, this isn’t so bad.”

But I didn’t die.  Someone grabbed my arm and pulled me up, and I saw my friend Mike, red-faced and huffing, dragging me up and out of the water. Eventually he got me back to shore, where I threw up a bunch of lake water and sputtered for air.  I remember thinking “Thank God he was here!” and, also, “So close.  So close to quiet.”  I wasn’t necessarily suicidal, but I was looking for a relief that seemed illuminated by possible death.  That’s not to say suicidal thoughts haven’t entered my mind.  In high school I was pretty much at my worst, and considering the easy way out, but a friend stopped me, showing me how much I had to live for.  In college, I spent twenty minutes standing on a bridge trying to decide if jumping was a good plan, until my mother showed up and the idea floated away.  So yes, these thoughts come to me, but they also leave, and I am happy to see them go.  The sad part is when they come for others. 

Not that there isn’t help, because there is.  There are suicide hotlines, counseling, medication, and all sorts of emotional tools to keep you from getting to that point.  Most people find the situation hopeless, and don’t look for help.  Well, it’s here, guys.  It exists.  And it’s worth it.

Do I know you?  Are you feeling depressed or suicidal?  Do you need to talk?  Get in touch.  Are you a stranger who needs help, but doesn’t know where to turn?  I don’t care.  Get in touch.  There are no judgments on my end, I assure you.  I can raise all the money in the world and write a million blog posts about it, but the only thing that really is going to stop suicide is people coming together and standing up to it, and being a support for those facing such unfathomable decisions.  It is my hope that all the depressed people in the world choose one more day, every day, because things do change.  Things do get better. Maybe not easier, but better.  I promise.

With Age Comes Fear

As a little girl, I lived across the street from a park that had two carnivals a year, once for Memorial Day and again for the 4th of July.  I have many happy memories of these celebrations, and one of my very favorite rides was the Big Swings.  I would ride them over and over, loving flying above the ground as I had always dreamed I could.

Then, a couple of years ago, Mark and I went to Fantasy Island amusement park.  We went on the Big Swings there, and I was terrified.  I’ve been on less scary rollercoasters.  I screamed and clutched his arm the entire time.  When I got off, I swore I would never ride it again.

My question is, where does that fear come from?  I decided to take an informal poll.  I posed the question “what is something you loved as a child that you fear as an adult, and why?”  Some (paraphrased) results:

“I used to love squirrels, until one bit me, and now I hate them.  So fear of being injured; bad experiences.”

“Water.  Used to love to swim but now I am aware of the potential dangers and fear drowning because of it.”

“I loved roller-skating as a kid, and had clip-on skates with a key.  Then when I grew older, I went to a rink for the first time and had to use boot skates.  I kept falling down.  So, a lack of self-confidence.”

“Long car rides.  Road trips sound fun but the thought also makes me claustrophobic and anxious now.”

“Heights. I used to love them as a kid, but now it makes me panic and get dizzy and want to drop to my knees.  I realized it in my 20s when I tried to walk across a train trestle.  I think it may have been a past-life recollection.”

None of this explains my fear.  Nothing happened to make me hate the Big Swings.  I was never injured, or humiliated because of them.  I thought perhaps it was a fear of heights, but I’m not so much afraid of that as I am of my glasses falling off my face at such altitudes.  There was no way to lose my glasses on this ride.  Is it a fear of being airborne?  But, as a child, all I wanted was to fly.  When did that desire become fear?

If I had to make a comparison it would be to the water fear.  Now that I am aware of the dangers of the ride, am I scared of it?  And that fear, of course, can only come from one place.

Anxiety disorder: my Achilles heel.

My fears are often unfounded.  Take washing dishes; I simply cannot.  I have tried, on numerous occasions and in numerous ways, to try to do the dishes.  Yet my anxiety, my fears, my germaphobia all get in the way and leave me sick to my stomach.  I have been physically ill while doing the dishes before, and now I leave that job up to Hubs.  Mind you, I used to be able to do this.  There was a time when I was doing a show called When You Comin’ Back, Red Ryder?  Great show, except for the five full breakfasts I had to make and serve at every performance.  This resulted in a pile of dishes that I scrubbed clean each night after the curtain closed.  But that was before.

Before what, exactly?  Before my anxiety became so bad that I had to leave theater, leave work, leave the life I had built because I couldn’t handle the life being built inside my head.  Still, this one fear eludes me.  Is it simply my anxiety taking over that makes the Big Swings so terrifying? 

The car ride fear.  Anxiety is the culprit there, and the person in question is fully aware of it.  I am aware of my anxiety only partially, and that has been an annoying little issue in my life.  Sometimes I will find myself in the throes of a panic attack with no idea how I got there, and only after careful reconstruction with my therapist will I discover what one little trigger set it off.  So, is it anxiety, like the car ride, coupled with fear due to new information, like the water? 

I will likely not figure this one out.  However, it did spawn many interesting conversations about childhood fears vs adult fears.  I think that the take away here is that children are, mostly, fearless.  They have no anxiety yet, they have no fear until they meet consequences, and those are always unexpected.  Then, we age, and learn of the consequence of our actions, and we become afraid.  Maybe we want to keep up appearances.  Maybe we want to keep safe.  Maybe we want to avoid situations that make us uncomfortable.  What it really comes down to is that we learn what happens “after,” and that’s where the fear comes in.  I wish I could summon that part of me that was a fearless child, before life made me jaded and expectant.  I would tell her to go forth and do it all, no fear involved.  I would make her take me on the Big Swings, and this time when I screamed my head off, it would be screams of delight.

The Ghosts in the Machine

I’ve been spending a lot of time thinking about poetry.  As previously mentioned, I just completed a chapbook of poems about chronic illness, and I am now awaiting feedback from my trusted sources.  In the meantime, I am looking into different publishing options and considering leaving my house to go to a poetry reading.  That might not seem like anything, but trust me when I tell you it would be a big leap for me.

I have also been reading and rereading my chapbook, and I found that I have a common theme in many of my poems, and that is ghosts.  I’d like to expand on that.

There are many kinds of ghosts in my life, ranging from those I create to those that are real.  As far as real ghosts go, I have always believed in them, likely because of my imaginary community that was a little too specific for even a child’s make-believe games.  Then there was the time K saw the faceless man in my attic, and I later learned that a guy shot himself up there.  So yes, I believe in ghosts.  You may think that’s ridiculous…whatever.

But I’m not here to write about real ghosts.  Instead I am thinking of the ghosts from my poems, the ones that nip at my heels and haunt my mind.  These ghosts are much scarier than the real thing, in my opinion.  A real ghost can’t hurt you.  The ghosts in your brain can do damage.

I have bad feelings related to certain times in my life.  Once, when my grandmother died, and I found her in her last moments, and watched as my mother desperately tried to save her.  This broke my small self, and according to my psychiatrist caused my first instance of PTSD.  Later, came high school.  I loved high school as much as I hated it.  It reminds me of smoking cigarettes.  I love smoking, but I hate my addiction to it.  While high school was by no means an addiction, it is where I was at my worst, emotionally.  I was undiagnosed and unmedicated, and I was a train wreck human being.

In my twenties, I suffered another setback.  Through a series of events, I lost faith in many things I had once believed in.  My response was to act out in small ways-drinking too much, smoking weed, staying out all night.  I wanted to forget that I was in pain.  I felt like I didn’t deserve to feel my feelings.  That I couldn’t be angry, because who was I?  In the grand scheme of things, in Gods great universe that I believed in at the time, who the hell was I?

So, there’s the ghosts.  There’s the Gram ghost, the high school ghost, and the faith ghost.  Now, the Gram thing doesn’t affect me on a day to day basis anymore, which is an absolute delight.  From her death stems my anxities, however.  For instance, if I care about you, you can guarantee I’m worried about you.  So, I suppose in that way it has affected my life, but I feel like that’s a benefit more than a burden, really.  Yes, I worry about you, but that’s how I express my love.

The high school thing likes to sneak up on me.  I’ll be minding my own business, acting like a normal 36-year-old, and then something will happen or come up in conversation and I will be hurdled back twenty years.  I particularly identify this time with my budding Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder.  I slid into my obsessions easily and frequently-sometimes it would be so bad I would actually wish I had the hand-washing kind of OCD, just so I could focus on something outside of my fantasy world.  It took a lot of time for me to come to terms with my high school experience.  I like to focus on the good things, though, when this particular ghost comes calling.  Specifically, my friends.  They were really the only good part.  Well, and the building was nice, I suppose.

Finally, there’s the ghost of mid-20s past.  This is the tricky one.  This is the one that my therapist likes to bring up every so often to blindside me with: “So Brigid, let’s talk about the year you spent questioning everything you believed in…”  This one is still a battle.  This is the ghost that features most prominently in my chapbook, though all of them reside there.

Poetry is personal, in my opinion.  You are sharing your observations and feelings, through the lens of your own perception.  When I read poetry, I do the same thing; I look at it though my own frame of context.  Sometimes, it will touch my soul, and she will scream out “Me, too!” and I will feel like I just made a new friend between the pages of a book.

I carry these ghosts around in my head, and I know I will never let them go, but that’s okay. They make up little parts of me, the parts that feel the deepest.  They are the wellsprings from which I draw my words.  My chapbook would not exist without them.  My writing would not exist.  So, I live with this haunted mind in hopes that one day someone will read my words and say, hey…me too.

Fancy Doctors

I just discovered that if I have work on a WordPress site, I can reblog it to my site.
I probably should have figured this out earlier.
That said, enjoy some poetry on how mental illness sucks.

Madwomen in the Attic

Fancy Doctor

I’m spiraling and my mother made me

See a strange woman with a spiteful stare

And I used big words like

Trick-o-till-o-mania and she laughs…

She thinks I make things up.

I think she isn’t worth the frame holding the degree on her wall.

View original post 895 more words

Personal Triumphs

I was sitting on the sofa and thinking about what to do with my day when it occurred to me that it was Monday, which means blog day.  At first, I panicked because I didn’t have a topic, but then I realized that yesterday I hit a milestone.  I finished my chapbook.

I started thinking about this little lady around Easter, when I realized that several of my poems have to do with living with chronic illnesses.  I often write about my depression and anxiety, and have a few poems about my diabetes and gastroparesis, too.  So, I assembled all the poems I had in regards to chronic illness, wrote a few more, edited and organized them, and now I officially have a manuscript. 

I don’t know what to do with it, of course.  I have given it to my mother, Aunt Mary, and Sahar, and am looking for others to give me feedback.  Then it’s off to find a publisher, which means it’s time to take myself to school at YouTube University and figure out how one even does that.  I did a quick Google search while waiting on Mark yesterday and found one press for which my manuscript fits all the criteria, but I just missed their reading period.  This indicates to me that finding somewhere to send it might be a little trickier than finding places to send singular poems. 

For now, though, I’m unconcerned.  I’m very excited that I even finished it, as it has been some time since I have seen a project come to fruition.  The fact that it’s about the things that have held me back from my literary career only pleases me more.  It’s triumphant.

The last piece I finished was a play I wrote that, looking back, is garbage.  Yes, I have said many times that I think everything I write is garbage, and I am my own worst critic. This is so true-I tell myself things about my writing other people would never dare.  I think about that play, and often want to rewrite it, working out the kinks and changing things both big and small.  That play was written nearly ten years ago.  When I finished it, I felt great joy and relief.  That feeling returned yesterday morning, as I put the finishing touches on my manuscript. 

It was done.  I had completed something for the first time in a really long time, and I would be lying if I said I wasn’t pleased with myself.  Proud, mostly, that I was able to take something that has affected me for so long, and put it into words.  Then put those words into something someone else could read and relate to.  That’s all I want, as a writer.  For someone to read my words and see themselves.

So today I celebrate a little, because I did something I always wanted to do.  Ever since I was a kid, I have loved poetry, reading it and especially writing it.  To have my poems ready to meet the world is a beautiful thing.  What’s more…I don’t think it’s garbage, guys.  I think it’s kind of good, actually.  Which is, in it’s own way, terrifying. 

My biggest hope is publication, of course.  Still, if it doesn’t happen that way, I am proud of myself for creating something that I can share with others.  I feel like poetry takes a certain level of bravery, and this collection certainly did.  I am openly sharing my experiences with illness, and that is scary.  We, as people, don’t like to point out our weaknesses.  What we need to do is embrace them, and learn from them.  I may be sick, but I’m still strong.

That’s all for today.  I’m off to stare at my novel for a bit, as she has just moved off the backburner and into focus.  That’s a flippin’ mess, to be honest.  It’s more a large outline than a half finished novel, and it needs tons of reworking and additions.  And I’m stuck on a section right now, so that’s fun.  Hence, the staring instead of writing.  Sigh.

Happy Monday, friend.  Go do something brave.