Evolve or remain.

In October of 2022, my boyfriend called my parents to come and pick me up after one of the worst nights of my life. I was white-knuckling severe depression and manic episodes. I was always anxious and on edge, even when I felt my safest. My physical health had worsened and doctors had no idea how to help me. The unknown, quite literally, was killing me. I was always feeling alllll the things. Fear, sadness, excitement, uncertainty, doubt, insecurity, small portions of joy at a time, paranoia, you name it. I was sleeping, at best, 4 hours a night.  It did get to a point where I felt suicidal, and my mother and step-dad rushed over to take me to the ER in Psychiatrics to get me on meds. I spent 20 minutes fighting tears, answering questions, admitting defeat. The nurse gave me a 50 milligram anti-anxiety pill and it helped. It helped me. It didn't heal me. I feel the need to emphasize the importance of the difference between those two things because if you expect a pill to heal the i...

My only goal as a writer has only ever been to tell the truth. To be as vulnerable as possible with whatever audience I ever reached - even if that audience was only myself. It was never my goal to write for the sake of entertaining, or to make up insane stories, or even to exaggerate my own story. I don't see a purpose in that. That is not me putting down fiction authors or creative minds of any kind. Those people and their crafts are needed. That's just not my style as a writer, blogger, author, word artist, whatever you want to call what I do.  I find great joy and even greater peace in writing. It is something that has been there for me from my earliest years, and it never required much money or a huge tub of supplies. It's always been my brain and I, and occasionally pen and paper. I've been able to write for the duration of family road trips, and about each individual heartbreak I experienced through my teenage years and even into my adult life. When my parents di...

The last time I had the energy to write was January 22 of this year - and it's hard to explain why. I've made a home of hospital beds, doctor office tables, my couch, you name it. But even in my extremely increased amount of rest time, I've struggled to do much of anything. Chronic illness is funny that way. Funny isn't the right word, but you get the idea. I was released from the hospital on New Years Day, and on New Years Eve I distinctly remember my family leaving my room by 7:15 p.m. Visiting hours ended at 8 p.m. 16 days in hospital gowns, managing bleeding, needing help brushing my teeth, eating nothing but soup and choking down ICU black coffee... was not a fun way to spend the holidays. I'd been admitted to the hospital for a third time the day after I turned 25. I was in the hospital over Christmas. I was in the hospital on Dec. 31.  The doctors had been arguing over what anticoagulant to get me on, and one morning I woke up with my hematology and oncology ...

 It feels like the rest of the world is spinning around me, like everything is normal, and I'm over in the corner in the fetal position trying my best not to throw up from it.  Back in May of last year, when I threw up a little bit of blood one time and went to Urgent Care, I was hopeful that would be it. One round of antibiotics, and then I'd be done. Unfortunately, that couldn't have been further from the truth.  In my CT scan they found that I was missing the portal vein, which I've since learned is pretty damn crucial for the well-being of the human body. How have I learned that? Tests. Soooooo many tests. Three trips to the Emergency Room since my birthday last year, and that was in December. My arms are scarred from all of the IV's and blood draws. At one point, at midnight in the ICU, the IV specialist had to bring in a sonogram machine for veins just to find one where she could insert a second IV line. She also had to snake the needle in and back out... and ...

"This is not how I wanted to make the Top 100," I joked with my parents a week ago, moments after the doctor in the ICU gave me my diagnosis and informed us that I was only the 84th patient with it in the world. The night after my 25th birthday, my boyfriend called my mom as I puked blood and the decision was made to rush me to the ER.  In the waiting room my fever spiked, and I passed out on Nick's shoulder. Everything was blurry, it hurt to hold my head up and I was barely able to open my eyes when my mom and Andy arrived.  Nurses asked me a million questions while my world spun faster and faster, and I kept it together right up until a minute after they left. Nick held my hair while I threw up in an emergency room trash can, with an IV in my hand and tears in my eyes from the burn in my throat.   And that was the beginning.  The doctor came in and told us I would need to be transferred to the main hospital, and that I'd be in the ER overnight or at least unti...