Girl, Interrupted

ImageTa Da! Here I am! I’m Writing again, actual words on an actual page! See? Typey type type, there I go, watch my speed! I’m back, and it feels, frankly, downright triumphant.

I know, I know, it’s been a long time. I promised myself once I got this blog off the ground, I wouldn’t stop. Not for anything. And then I got sick, and I broke that promise. And I beat myself up for it for the past six months or so, because I am rather good at breaking promises to myself. .

So about this getting sick thing. We aren’t talking a little sick. It was bad, and threw me for more than I could shake. You would think that someone living with a rare genetic disorder causing more complications than a runaway marriage would be used to dealing with honest-to–god medical maladies. But I wasn’t. I spent months weak, tired, and confused as to what was happening to my body, why it was happening to me and how I was ever going to put back together my interrupted life. I developed a mistrust in the medical system, and in myself for thinking much of it all stemmed from bad decision making and self-advocacy. For a long time, I wasn’t able to eat, which caused a terribly unfair relationship to food.  What was once one of my greatest life passions became a mortal enemy. It was a long, hard, dark time. Perhaps I’ll get into more detail of all that happened. Perhaps I won’t. I learned a lot with so much own time, about how to learn to be  sick,and how to learn to be a full-functioning human again. Hospitals are kind of interesting places as they are gut-wrenching, and certainly provided fodder for stories. But more on that later.

The important thing is that I’ve scrounged up the courage to say something. All in all, the details of my trip down the sickness spiral hell hole aren’t exactly the point. The point is, sickness, no matter what flavor, can be all-consuming if you let it.

That’s exactly what I did; I let it strip me of the one thing I swore could never ever ever be taken from me–my voice. And that comes to my writing, or lack thereof. For so long, I felt so bad about myself, that I saw writing as just another chore. My self-deprecation had a vice-like grip on my thought processes. Every attempt to write was another escapade in self-doubt. In moments of weakness and lack of confidence, the Thought Demons fed on my vulnerability.

The initial failed attempts of resurrecting my blog and sharing my point-of-view weren’t for lack of trying. Numerous attempts of facing the terrifying Blank Page always played out in a predictable pattern. There would be a starburst of self-confidence, and the burst would fizzle the way a sparkler does and surrender to my well-acquainted darkness. It went a little something like this:

Me: I can do this, I am going to write today! It’ll be useful and therapeutic and something to distract me from feeling so crappy!

Brain: Ha.

Me; I mean it, I can do it! I have so much to say I have, like perspective and stuff, on life with a chronic disease! I’m quirky and witty! I can be Megan, the quirky, witty blogger!

Brain: Cute. Nice try.

Me: I can write about…

Brain About…?

Me: But…

Brain: Exactly.

With a heavy sigh, I would close the laptop, with the steely taste of defeat in my mouth, and return to my Say Yes to the Dress marathon. It was easy. It was passive. It was pretty looking.

And it went like that for months.

But now, things are different. I’m stronger clearer of mind, and ready to pick up where I left off. I have matters to discuss, after all.

So readers, I am back, and determined to keep writing. To use that old cliché, the pen is my sword, and the way I can control a seemingly out-of-control situation. So my sincerest apologies for going all Howard Hughes on you. I haven’t given up, not quite yet; I’ve just been a girl, interrupted.


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