Evolve or remain.

Today was my first day of graduate school. Or eighteenth grade. I like calling it that. Somehow it makes it seem less daunting and more like something I'm supposed to show up to in an outfit my mom picked out, holding crayons she bought for me. But that isn't the reality. In reality it was a 15 hour day. 15 hours isn't much time, but it is. Trust me, it is. But damn, it was a good day. I'm finally back in a place where I feel like I belong. I'm coming back to the same university where I did my undergraduate work and I guess part of me thought it would feel the same... but everything is so different now. I'm coming back smarter, stronger, less apologetic, more open-minded, with a bunch of diagnoses I didn't have five years ago. I've gotten married since I left. I've learned I had a chronic medical condition since I left. I've learned most importantly that the energy and love I've poured into my academic and professional careers is going to do ...

I have about a million things to do, so this seems like the best time to finally sit down and blog again. The important things are done -- my income taxes, the housework, the med management. The dogs are calm, the dishes are clean, and the windows are open for some much needed serotonin.  The truth is, it's been a long time since I've had the motivation (and the time, and most importantly the energy), to write. I'm still adjusting to working 40+ hours a week in a very people-y career field after I spent 8 months being told by doctors that it probably wasn't going to be possible for a very long time.  In 2022 when it was discovered I would need a liver transplant, my whole world came to a very sudden stop. Then in early 2023, when I was still very sick but doctors determined a liver transplant wasn't even going to be a safe option for treatment, my mental health hit rock bottom. I had never experienced fear, and anxiety, and depression to that extreme a degree. I had...

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 ...