Change My World

There’s a lot that I don’t know. I can’t even write a complete list for you because I wouldn’t know what to put on it. But throughout my entire life there have been a few things that I’ve always known, and one of them is writing. I will always have writing.

In the past half a year I’ve written more than I’ve ever written before (even though this blog doesn’t necessarily showcase it. Sorry about that), and it’s been so good for me. I have another world, separate from the real one, which lives inside of me. Worlds are created all the time, practically every time I read a book, watch a movie or binge watch a TV show. The difference is that this world is something I invented, the people living in it are characters I dreamt up, and the meaning of it is the culmination of many, many, inner conversations and turmoil.

The cool thing about my world is that I have writing. You see, I’m in the process of turning this inner world into a world accessible to other people by writing it. I’ve done this for nearly two years with my thoughts and feelings on this blog (this is where we all freak out and scream over the fact that I’ve been writing on here for two years. I mean, sheesh, I’ve had my driver’s license for a year! Remember that saga? I remember).

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I googled “freak out and scream” and of all the amusing photos, this one won

This is different though. This isn’t me sharing the thoughts I have on my life and my body and my situation. This is me sharing a story. A story I’m building, crafting, imagining, and loving. I really love it.

It’s cool to think that maybe someday, you will all read my book. Like, in an actual physical copy, with my name embossed on the front and the blurb about the author including this very blog. You’re all going to be famous!

I’ve had ideas for novels before but they were never real. This one is real. This one is serious. This one is actually happening.

On the list of things that I don’t know goes my plans for next year. I have __ months of high school left (I can’t bring myself to count). I don’t know what I’ll be doing, because stinking fibro cancels out all of my options. But I’ll always have writing. Who knows, maybe this is fate stepping in and making sure I won’t be able to move on to the next natural step so that I can sit down and write this book.

Will it change the world? Probably not.

Will it change mine? Probably.

Yours,

Ella

Song Quote:

I put my faith in me. –Long Shot, Newton Faulkner

I’m Going Home

 

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Not my window, but a dreamy window indeed

 

I can totally do this.

The past few days have been filled with pain and the past few nights have been filled with consciousness. I am tired and tired of studying. I am sick and suffering, but I can do this.

Two tests left. My window is open to let the cold, crisp air in and onto my face, and every now and then I remember to breathe. I have a playlist of Coldplay, Maroon 5 and Beyoncé to keep me from getting too bored of my material, and a yellow highlighter that matches my dried mango (god’s gift to man).

A classic study set-up.

Not only am I motivated and uplifted by the light I can glimpse at the end of the tunnel, but I now have something to look forward to: I’m going home. I moved away from my hometown when I was 7, and in many ways where I live now is a larger part of my identity. It’s where my family is, where most of my friends are, my school, and my past ten years of life. This culture now feels as much an inseparable part of my identity as the culture of my early childhood.

But still, the thought of going back for a visit makes the words “I’m going home!” shout in my mind, bang around and jump up and down (primarily as I try to study). For once I have something to look forward to, and by golly, is it uplifting.

I just feel like I can do this, I can make it through these tests and then go home. The first time I went back to visit was many years after we moved away, and at the sight of my neighborhood I began to cry in the back of the cab. Those tears were because I missed it all and I wished we’d never moved. The tears I’m sure will come this time will not be the same. I’m no longer a 7-year-old girl. In a few months time I will turn 18 and I will need to accept that the fibromyalgia will become a part of my adult life too.

This time I will cry because I really need a break from the reality of my life that is so often sad and frustrating.

This time I will cry tears of joy, because despite it all I love the person I have become and I know I would not be the same if we had never moved away.

This time I will cry, and then leave the tears aside and focus on being where I am. The Dalai Lama said that there are only two days that do not exist: yesterday and tomorrow. In my life, my yesterdays always carry over to my todays (in the form of a headache) and I can’t help but worry about all of my tomorrows.

This time I will cry.

Yours,

Ella

 

Song Quote:

Millions of miles from home in the swirling, swimming on, when I’m rolling with the thunder, but bleed from thorns, leave a light, leave a light on. –Midnight, Coldplay

 

Stay tuned for part 2! I plan to write all about my trip.

Part 1: I’m Going Home

Part 2: I’m Home!

On Self Defense and Being Awkward

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A* has intimidated my entire grade since we were in our early teens. He’s tall, broad, staring and deep-voiced. One might think his stutter could even out the playing field a bit, but it simply gives him an additional edge: it’s ominous.

When his legs were hurt this summer, my friend and I wanted to go visit him in the hospital to be nice and show we cared. But what do you bring with you to visit someone you don’t really know? I had no clue as to what to bring, say or do. So I went with what I know: writing. I wrote him a card. Damn that stupid card.

We got there and instantly felt out of place, because his friends were there and he didn’t really know us that well. And we were intimidated. We tried to stick as close to the wall as possible to leave room for the people he actually liked to be near him. We kind of wanted to leave, but we were dependent on busses to get home and we didn’t want to wait outside the hospital for forever. So we stood, awkwardly, praying we disappeared into the background.

Finally, an hour later, it was time to go catch our bus. But I was still holding the letter that I’d taken out of my bag as we’d entered, and had since clasped in my clammy claws of hands. Eventually I said, “Where can I put this?” and he said, “Here, you can give it to me.” I passed it to him, wanting to snatch it back and burn it.

Months later, I was sitting in the school lobby and looked up to see him standing next to me. Standing. I squeaked out “hi!” (Intimidated).

“Hey. How are you?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine. You’re walking!”

“Limping,” he corrected, and thus ended our interaction.

After that, they told us in class to bring our gym clothing for the next day, because A was going to teach us some self-defense. A few weeks before there had been an incident with a knife outside our school that ended, thankfully, with no injuries, but with an injured sense of security.

Knowing I wouldn’t be able to participate fully, I decided to at least dress the part. I might stand out because of everything else, but I refuse to stick out because of my clothing. So I come in my t-shirt, leggings and sneakers, and slowly take in that everyone else on the field is dressed normally. So much for that.

I also knew that I would have to let A and the other instructor know in advance that I wouldn’t be taking part in everything and I would be more of an observer. In theory, that part shouldn’t have been so bad.

Except that I miscalculated how far away they were from me. I started off at my normal walking pace, which I wouldn’t call slow but also can’t categorize as fast. If they hadn’t looked up I would have been fine. I would have had my time to collect my thoughts and call out to them in my own time. But they looked up, and saw me coming from a distance. They halted their conversation and focused on watching me approach them. Let me stress this: they were just standing there, watching me walk to them. Eye contact? Yeah, there was some of that. Awkward eye contact? Yeah, heaps of that. I kept walking and walking and walking and it felt like I might never reach them.

Then came the dilemma: do I speed up, now that they see me coming? I mean, these hulks of men might get impatient and why would I want to add fire to their wrath? But I decided to stick to my original pace, feeling that that might exude a sense of calm and normalcy about my gait. Once I was within earshot, one of them called out, “Hi.”

“Hi,” I said. Steady breaths. I didn’t feel as short as I thought I would, but that didn’t improve things much. “So here’s the thing I have health problems and I can’t participate in everything but it’s okay I came to watch and I’ll do what I can and it will all be fine so yeah thanks.” And breathe.

“Okay.”

Okay. So, I guess I leave now… right? I said what I came to say, but they’re still looking at me. Deciding once again that consistency is best, I turn around walk away from them at my steady pace, except I now feel their eyes on my back (or butt? *Nervously tugs down the hem of her T-shirt*).

Did he read my card? As the thought occurs to me during my time-consuming departure from them, I’m almost sure they can see my blush through the back of my head. He never said anything. I never said anything. Did he read it? Does he think I’m stupid? Am I stupid?

Uh oh, hell no, how do I stop these thoughts? Well, having to turn around and face them as they called us to attention was probably not the best way. Turns out that they were following me, about five paces behind me (of course).

The value of the self-defense that I learned most probably outweighs the discomfort I felt for a few hours, and will likely stick with me for much longer, so I’m going with positivity for this case.

Until the next time I cross paths with A….

Ella

Song Quote:

And the only solution was to stand and fight, and my body was bruised and I was set alight. -If Only For A Night, Florence and the Machine

*Want to guess what A is short for? Leave it in the comments, and get creative!

I’m Going to Go with Passion

I’m having trouble concentrating on life because all I want to to do is write the story I have in my head right now. I can’t even focus on writing a post without getting distracted and wanting to write VIQ (I don’t want to share the whole title just yet, so just initials for now).

This isn’t what I usually write on here, but I’ve actually come to the conclusion that maybe this too will interest you. Because when you have a lot of pain, like I’ve had the past few weeks, you don’t get to do what you want to. You aren’t free. All I wanted to do was write but even typing hurt my hands too much. Now that I’ve regained functionality I have this drive inside me to let my creativity run abound and get this story from my head to the pages. It’s not a fire, even though some writers describe it that way, but the words are definitely burning to get out. I think I’d call it… Obsession? Urge? Passion. I’m going to go with passion. I have to admit, I’m really excited about VIQ. It’s different than what I usually write and all of the previous novel ideas I’ve had. It’s kind of a fun story that observes the way the whole world is so small these days, and how we can all be connected to the exact same thing despite the distance between us. It’s also a huge mash-up of all of my favorite daydreams to escape to. For once it feels nice not to write about the things that are sad and hard for me. Not that that is the only thing I write on here- there are plenty of things that have to do with normal life and happier topics. But still, in this novel, no one is sick and I like that.

So here’s to VIQ and huge breakthroughs,

Ella

Song Quote:

If you could read my mind, love, what a tale my thoughts could tell. -If You Could Read My Mind, Gordon Lightfoot Do you feel this passion too?

My Relationship with Taylor Swift

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As far as relationships go, Taylor Swift’s and mine was a pretty happy love story* for a bunch of years. I was about eleven or twelve years old when I started listening to her music, and I was enchanted. I would memorize all of the lyrics, practice the tunes until I got them just right, and even make up dances to my favorite songs. There were times when the two of us were inseparable, and I would spend hours trying to figure out the coded messages she slipped into her lyric books.

When “Speak Now” came out, I bought my copy right away and took to pacing up and down my living room while listening to it. I had just started at a new school, and I remember being on the bus when a few girls up front started singing “Sparks Fly”, and being overjoyed that I too knew all of the lyrics. When someone said that all of the songs on the album sounded too similar, I defended T-Swizzle’s honor and gave them a long speech (well, it was more of a soliloquy) about how her songs are well crafted, ingenious and beautiful. I was a Swiftie to the core.

But then, entirely out of the blue, in the fall of 2012, Taylor Swift and I had a falling out. It was dreadful, and I was dying to know if it was killing her like it was killing me. I don’t think it was though. Taylor Swift once told me that to be her friend all I had to was like her and listen, and I was failing royally at that. I was disappointed in her new album, “Red”, though for a short period of time in my younger years red was my favorite color. I decided she was a bad singer who was fairly hypocritical and fake, and who should have kept her beautiful curls whole.

The thing is, our falling out wasn’t entirely out of the blue. In truth, it had everything to do with the summer that preceded said fall. I was fifteen in the summer of 2012, and I was diagnosed with fibromyalgia while at the same time the growth I had found on my back was declared cancerous. I was intensely upset and dreadfully angry, but mostly I was confused. Despite that, I had made a vow to myself many years earlier that no matter what personal hardships arose, I would never, ever, take out my anger on the people around me.

I retreated into myself, and for a little while lost touch with peace and serenity. “Red” came out that October. Are you starting to see the shockingly obvious connection between my emotional state and the condition of my relationship with Taylor Swift? I kept my promise; I didn’t take my anger out on the people around me. But I did take it out on Taylor.

Taylor is blissfully unaware of my existence, because despite my sudden loathing of her I never spread a bad word about her. There was no trash talk on her social media pages, hateful comments on her videos, or mean emails that came from me. I did not turn my words into knives and swords and weapons. My issues with her were personal, and only my family and closest friends knew of our sad, beautiful, tragic love affair.

If you allow me to quote her song Fifteen, “when you’re fifteen, don’t forget to look before you fall, I’ve found time can heal most anything.” I was fifteen, and I had been in a lot of lonely places, but few were as lonely as being isolated by an illness I had, and have, no control over. I tried to be fearless, I tried to breathe, but I was coming undone despite being tied together with a smile.

The song that led me back to positive terms with Taylor is “The Lucky One”. In it, she says “they tell you that you’re lucky but you’re so confused, cause you don’t feel pretty, you just feel used and all of the young things line up to take your place… you wonder if you’ll make it out alive”. It’s an honest song, and it reminded me that Taylor is a person, just like me, who also goes through phases and who has also has hard times.

So, Taylor, this is me swallowing my pride, standing in front of you and saying I’m sorry. It has been two years since then, and my state of shock** and anger turned into a state of sadness, one I haven’t fully gotten out of yet. Time has passed, and I know I had no right to be angry with you, to criticize you, or to pass judgment on your hair. Your hair is beautiful just the way you like it. You do have a good voice, and I do know all of the lyrics to all of your songs, and I do still appreciate you and your music (like, a lot).

I know there is nothing you do better than revenge, but please, forgive me? Can we begin again?

I have adopted the motto of “live and let live”, and though I still feel as though I have personal relationships with certain singers because I connect with them and their feelings through their music and lyrics, I no longer feel as though they have actual obligations towards me. They don’t owe me songs I’m going to like. I believe that they should write what they need to write, and if I don’t like it, I can stick to listening to their older material that I do like.

I’m writing this for several reasons: a) I wanted to apologize to Taylor Swift and b) the nature of our relationship demonstrates the process I have gone through since the two separate and inconveniently overlapping diagnoses of two years ago. Before them, though not carefree, I still had hoards of energy with which to pace rooms endlessly and “fangirl” hard. During and after them, I felt trapped in a dark and confining cage and my soul was banging around between the bars. My life was in upheaval. As time passed, though my physical pain did not diminish and has even worsened, I have gained perspective and a personal understanding of pain and its aftermath. I have become a better person, who is well equipped to deal with hardship and is used to gearing up to tackle each day as a separate obstacle. The anger has mellowed out, basically. And now I just wish as many people happiness as I can, and that includes Taylor Swift.

Love,

Ella

*Italics are either titles of songs interwoven as words, lyrics from songs, references to things she wrote in her lyric books or clever adjustments of lyrics to fit the sentence and context.

**play on the song called “State of Grace”

Chronicle of a Rereader

As little kids, we all get used to hearing the same stories before bed every night, and most of us love it. Somewhere along the way, when we learn how to read by ourselves, many stop enjoying reading something they’ve already read again. I am not one of those. I love rereading books.

I form an emotional connection with every (good) book that I read and with the characters in said book. I usually become super invested in them and I feel like I know them. My sister will never let me live down the moment when I came downstairs crying because a character in my book died. It’s not the crying she won’t let me forget. It’s my explanation for why it was so horrible: “I’ve known him his whole life!” When I reread a book, I get to spend time with these characters that I loved so much the previous time, and it never seems to bother me that I already know what happens.

Usually when I reread a book I also notice things I didn’t notice before. Be it a comment from a character that seemed insignificant (but isn’t) or a description of a place that I overlooked, every time I read a book the story becomes a little richer for me. The best example for this is, of course, Harry Potter. Don’t look surprised. You all knew this moment was coming.

I have read the entire Harry Potter series (which consists of 7 books), 7 times. That’s 1,084,170 words in the whole series x 7 = 7,589,190 words. I won’t talk about this for too long, because if I let myself get into it this post will be 18 pages long and consist almost entirely of gushiness. BUT, I will just say that every time I read the series I get something new out of it, and with every reread I noticed additional clues JK Rowling strewed throughout (which just means that she’s a genius, not that I’m oblivious). The most recent reread was just a few months ago, and I had thirty pages left of the sixth book, so I was sitting in my school lobby and trying to finish it. But, a character dies right at the end, and I always cry hysterically when any of the characters die. Just picture this scene: I am curled up in a ball with the book held in front of me, sobbing, and the bell goes so the lobby starts to fill up with students. Mainly people just walk by and go “Oh Ella!” but the lovely Beatrice comes to stand in front of me and starts to laugh. “Sixth time?” she says. “Seventh,” I correct her. True friendship.

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The reason why I wish my school looked like Hogwarts…

Beyond the emotional connection I form with characters of a book, there is also an element of my own experiences over the period of time that I’m reading it. For instance, when I read “Tell it to the Skies”, a book by Erica James, I would meet a few friends in the morning before school started and update them with the new developments in the storyline. So now, when I reread it, I remember the feeling of them all waiting to hear me speak (which didn’t happen often during that time) and of sharing the excitement with them. I can use books to slip back to different times in my life and revisit them.

But alas, we cannot forget one more important factor here: whether I have any new books I feel like reading. Sometimes, I just want to read a story that I know is good and that I know I like. Like a few weeks ago, when I was worried about something medical that was creeping up and creeping me out, I chose to reread a fairytale book I love because I knew I would be able to take comfort in escaping in my mind to that other place. Sometimes I feel too not well to even read, but most of the time, if I really don’t feel good, I can read a book and just escape. Books are amazingly therapeutic, and rereading them is too. I hope you enjoy them as much as I do.

 

 

Love,

Ella

 

Song Quote:

Drench yourself in words unspoken. –Unwritten, Natasha Bedingfield

 

Announcement:

A few months ago, Julie Ryan contacted me and interviewed me for her fibro warrior segment. I just wanted to let you all know that for the first time she’s opening it up and inviting you to contact her and share your own story! Don’t miss out on this opportunity, you can find all of the info here: http://countingmyspoons.com/2014/08/fibro-warrior-share-story/

Good luck and enjoy!

Honesty

The stark difference between outside and inside doesn’t pass my notice. On the outside, I am calm, silent and still. Inside, there is so much movement it makes me sick. Or is the sick the cause of the movement? My heart is all aflutter; it feels as though everything within me is jumping, shivering, quaking.

They call my name. I walk in. I am only thoughts and yet I have no thoughts. We sit. The two men are seated before us. They tell me to talk. I’m surprised to find words leaving my mouth. I barely remember what I said.

Then one of the men starts talking, and I hate the things he says. Implying I have complete control over my body, and I could be better if I wanted to be. Implying I don’t get out of bed. Implying I’m making things sound worse than they are. The other man tells him to leave me alone. He doesn’t. And one thing he said shines in bright letters across the reel of my mind: “maybe if she just tries she’ll be better”. Maybe if he just tries he’ll be less stupid.

I want to run away. But heaven knows I can’t run. All I know I can do is cry, but I don’t. Then we’re getting up, and we’re walking out of the room, and the other kids my age look up at my face. I know they are there for the same reason I am, and they both look good. Like me. Put together. Dressed well. But wrong inside. A part of me wants to smile at them, encourage them, but I can’t seem to control the muscles of my face. Oh, I remember. It’s because I’m holding them tight so I don’t sob. Good thing I remembered.

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I am sweating. I can feel myself shaking, but I don’t know if that is only inside. I still want to cry. I want to go home. I don’t want to stand in line. I don’t want to repeat the verdict five times to unsympathetic people. Isn’t the verdict good though? Isn’t it what I wanted to hear? The outcome was the best it could have been, I suppose. I know this makes no sense to anyone but me. I apologize.

But I hold it together, and I make it home. Composure. I am a master at it. I go about the rest of my day, but now it is night, and it all decomposes. I can’t hold it together anymore. The composure, I mean. Not the rest. The rest I hold together whether I like it or not, because there is no other alternative for me. But the composure – yes, that is gone. Officially. Like my documents are today.

I would wish you a good whatever, but I am pretty sure that is not what it is.

Ella

 

Song Quote:

I’m sorry for the honesty, but I had to get this off my chest. –The Man, Ed Sheeran

AUTHOR”S NOTE:

I really am sorry for the kind of depressing post today. I wrote this the other day after a not so fun experience, and as I always try to be honest with you and share how I truly feel about things I decided to put this up. There are moments when I feel like I can handle anything, and moments when I don’t. Sometimes everything just becomes a bit much for me to handle. The good news is, when I feel like that I write it down and then I feel a little better.

Totally unrelated, but… Time is almost up! You need to send in your competition entries today! You can find all of the information about the competition and how to enter right here: http://smurl.ws/0zi1tm  It’s still anyone’s game! 

Rainbow Area

 

In life, there is an accepted term, “gray area”. It means things aren’t black and white; there’s no clear separation between good and bad. I’ve always accepted this term, and it never occurred to me how wrong it is until today.

It’s a rainbow area. It’s an area where a lot is happening, where things shift and change according to what we’re feeling and the circumstances, and what better way to represent shifting than color? I’ve always felt that I have some small version of synesthesia, because memories, dreams and feelings are represented in my heart by colors and shades of lighting.

I sometimes wish there was common ground in colors. If I tell someone that today I’m feeling orange, they’ll think I’ve gone a bit loco. To me, this makes sense: orange is a feeling, it’s the kind of mood I’m in. Yet when I try to translate this into normal people terms, it loses its meaning, and I simply say I’m feeling fine. But I’m feeling orange.

Humor me for a minute, and pretend you understand what feeling orange means.

Now do you have a better sense of me? Yes. Do you know what my day has been like? Yes. Do I need to say anything else in order for you to understand? Nope. Orange sums it all up.

Unfortunately and fortunately, colors are not used as everyday adjectives in the sense of feelings. Yes, I know what you’re thinking, you can “feel blue”, or “see green”, and these have a commonly accepted meanings, but they don’t count. Specific colors have been allotted certain connotations, and that doesn’t mean that’s the way I’m feeling. In my cozy world, green does not mean someone is jealous. Green can mean many, many different things, and jealousy isn’t actually among them.

So next time, instead of using the term “gray area”, please use “rainbow area”, and explain it to them if they don’t get it.

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Let’s make this a thing, people. #RainbowArea . It started here.

 

Yours truly,

Ella

Song Quote:

Loving him was red. -Red, Taylor Swift

 

Sheesh, time is flying! Don’t forget to send in your 2,500 competition entries! All of the info here: 

The deadline is Monday, July 14th!!!

In addition, I will hopefully be getting back to regular posts now that school is over for the year. I survived! I did it! For a few months now I just haven’t had much spare time, but as I said, you can start looking forward to weekly posts again :)

To Growing Up and Staying Young – 17

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With warm summer air surrounding us and the sounds of the crickets drifting in through my open window, I curled into my mother’s body and she hugged me to her; though I may be bigger than I was on the day I was born, exactly seventeen years ago, I will forever be her little baby and she will always be my mother.

She told me last year that as she turned seventeen, she was sad to part with sixteen. Today, I understand the way she felt then. Though sixteen might not have been exactly glamorous or particularly spectacular, it will forever hold a special place in my heart.

A lot has changed this year. I gained freedom, in a way, because I started and completed the whole process of learning how to drive and getting my license. Finally, something that everyone my age is tackling and mastering, and I could participate just liked everyone else. I even mastered it quickly and well, if I do say so myself. I probably annoy people a lot at this point when I talk about driving, but it’s fun to be the expert and the sage around my friends (I’m one of the only ones who can drive so far) on a topic unrelated to medical things.

The way I think about things has changed, drastically. I just approach things in a better way now. I keep up my positive thinking and I’ve developed an inner sense of humor that I’ve always had into a shield and a mood booster. I see humor in a lot of places I didn’t use to see it, and I cherish that change. It’s a change for the better.

I’m also more cautious, in a way, but at the same time I dare myself to do things I never would have done a year ago. I’m cautious with what I say and how much I share, not for fear of hurting someone else’s feelings, but for fear of sharing thoughts and feelings that I’m not yet sure about. I used to just blurb out whatever I was thinking, but now I take the time to actually form my thoughts before speaking and weigh the weight of what I’m sharing and how frustrated I will get if I can’t explain myself properly.

But I also take myself out of my comfort zone: I go places alone, I call people and talk on the phone, I do the things I know I should do but always feel awkward doing. I’ve just developed this way of approaching things and talking myself through them, and it’s starting to feel like I can tackle the things that have always intimidated me. I’m starting from the smaller things, like those I mentioned earlier, and at some point I will have the courage to face the bigger ones.

I also made the switch from thinking of all of the things I would like to do to actually doing them. I do more than talk, nowadays. Take, for example, my horrendous lack in general knowledge. For a bunch of years now I’ve been saying that I don’t know how I’ve been in school for so many years and yet there are basic things that I don’t know. This year, I just started educating myself. I bought a book called “The Knowledge Book”, and I read it before bed.

I’m just very aware of how I’m changing and how I’m learning to accept myself more and more. That’s another major change this year, my self-confidence. It’s been hard learning to accept my body with all that it puts me through, and that affected my self-confidence for a long time. But I’ve somehow learned how to separate fibromyalgia from my body, and because of that I’m learning to accept and like the way I look.

It’s exhilarating to realize that I’m getting older and there’s a whole new world of opportunities opening ahead of me, and absolutely terrifying at the same time. I’m sad to lose the feeling of being a child, of being protected by these strong and kind parents who are nothing but my parents. It’s huge to realize and to process that parents are people too, and to think of them as people before parents, but important. You do lose something though with that realization, because you can never go back. On the on hand, I still want them to take care of me and be there all the time, but at the same time the independent woman in me is showing her true colors and I just can’t wait to get out there in the world.

I’m sure it won’t be easy, but with every passing day I feel more and more ready to do it. To live life.

I propose a toast, to growing up and staying young forever.

 

Yours truly,

Ella

 

Song Quote:

Time may change me, but I can’t trace time. –Changes, David Bowie

 

You Thief Me Not

 

Who stole the cookie from the cookie jar? It was probably the same person that stole the words from my brain. Yes, surely it is one and the same. I’m thinking, if we join forces and try to capture the culprit and force him to return the stolen goods, we can all benefit and maybe even save others from the same terrible fate.

I think this thief preys on the weak. My brain is probably super easy to tap these days, what with all I’m demanding of it. Not only does it have to remember to tell my heart to pump and my muscles to move, it also needs to memorize copious amounts of information and regurgitate them on paper during a few high-pressure hours. Beyond those, it also has to constantly encourage my body to keep moving and keep coming up with new thoughts and fantasies to distract me from my pain. I sympathize with it, truly. That’s why I don’t blame my poor brain for being so vulnerable. It’s not its fault.

Now that we’ve established how the thief chooses its next victims, let’s move on to how he executes his crimes. My brain is most susceptible when I’m sleeping, of course, but I think that those hours are relatively safe because I close my shutters at night. Shutters keep brains safe, I believe. After much pondering, I have concluded that he must be operating while I sit down to write. This makes sense. Do you get it? It’s the perfect moment to act, while my brain is open and spewing, he can just come and pick out the best of the best.

Is the thief working alone? So I believe, for is he were not I would surely see someone else gallivanting with my words, and it has not come to that. Yet.

How will the thief be stopped? How do I restore my words to their proper domain and protect the future ones from being lost?

This is my plea for help,

Ella

 

Song Quote:

As he faced the sun he cast no shadow, bound with all the weight of all the words he tried to say. –Cast No Shadow, Oasis

 

P.s. If you help, I promise to share the cookies with you when we reclaim them.