Am I Doing This to Myself? Illness as an Identity, Limitations Around Happiness, & What It Took to Gain Back a Voice After Ten Months Without One

I write to make sense of things, or at least that’s what I tell myself. 

I pull on thought, put it there, then I pull out another, and put it there—over and over I go, mind churning up bits of debris, entirely unsure of where they came from. Actually, I’m convinced they were nothingness until I began to share their story, not mine. 

There’s a plot line, so into it I dive, pulling up more and more until I’ve exhausted myself and conjured up a scenario; a moment, a conversation, seemingly impossible limitation; I'm so far from reality that I have to call in a lifeboat to carry me back to me, where dinner is growing cold, my computer glares at me from across the room, and the only signs of this mind-excavation is being worn on my face and in the heaviness behind my eyes.

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June 7th - July 21st, 2018: Things I'd Tell You

I'm writing this from a little organic coffee shop in Bend, Oregon, and though the words below are in chronological order,  already written out at the date provided, doing their best to navigate and make sense of the past month or so, it would be doing them, myself, and all of you injustice if I were to dive right in. 

The possible argument that... this could be seen as a clear character depiction of my need and want to explain everything. Alas, I'm moving forward with the why's and the how's and the what if's. 

Let's start with the basics:I started this as a way to process the death of my grandpa. You can find more of those details, here. 

The bigger picture:In processing the death of my grandpa, I am noticing the cycles and persistent habits of my often anxious self, amongst other things, and I'm not sure I would have noticed if I didn't check in with myself in this no-pressure and expectation-less kind of way. 

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Re-Writing Your Story: On Making That Change, Cultivating New Dreams, and What Falls In between

When I go to write about something, whether it be a place, an adventure, experience, or what have you, it’s never about the sights I took in or logistical details, it’s the feeling. It’s where I find myself emotionally. It’s what comes up as I pack my bags—the resistance that’s felt. It’s, as I have said many times before, the moments that fall between the big. 

The decisions made and not made. Thought through and hastily jumped into. The way I turn a blind eye when I comes to finances, telling myself before actually looking at the numbers, that I don’t have enough, which feels an awfully lot like, “I am not enough, nor will I ever be.” 

How am I still applying pressure in all the wrong places? 

And how is taking my own advice still impossibly difficult?

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May 28th - June 5th, 2018: Things I'd Tell You

It's quite simple, really. 

I’ve got an idea, and though this isn’t an unusual thing to say, it is, for a reason I’m not quite clear on, extraordinary and extremely important. Oh yes, and selfish too. Maybe. 

Thanks to a conversation I had on grief with Adam, “Things I’d Tell You” is going to be a monthly piece in Real Talk’s, covering things like gardening, literature, adventure, the color of farm-fresh eggs, favorite poems, musings, grammar, and other such things. Things I’d have told you, Bob. And it should be noted, that I don't know what the future of this looks like, or how much I'll continue to share,

one thing is very clear: 

It’s a tug, a push, a thing I feel inclined to do, and I sure hope that you’ll join me. However that looks.

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I Haven't Been Completely Honest With You: Empty Promises, Endings, and Unavoidable Feelings

There are things I want to say. Things I have been meaning to say. Things that feel so big that I open my mouth to say them and all that comes out is, "yeah, I'm doing ok."

Truth is, things feel as far from ok as they possibly could. As I say this I cringe, knowing that I just took one of the most incredible trips with a dear friend and am about to begin another on behalf of More Than Lyme. What room is there to feel anything other than gratefulness for the opportunities I find myself standing in the wake and on the brink of?

Today I told Adam that I felt like a bowl of empty promises. Empty promises followed by one apology after another, in which he reminded me of what this community is built off of: honesty.

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My Gosh, Stop Apologizing and Just Give It Time: An Unexpected Note to Self

Ground Me

By way of pen to paper and rain, soaking through my wool sweater.

I stretch my arms up and wide, thinking of the yoga mat a few feet away — is that what I need? Turning my attention to anything that moves, eyes wanting to write this and that, doing my best to catch the thoughts before they pour from every corner of these past few months. 

Failed attempts. 

I feel the need to apologize, all the time. Why is that?

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