You know when you read something that touches you so deeply, so profoundly, that you can’t read anything else for a while? When you find yourself in tears, sobbing at your desk and going back to read it again? That happened to me this morning when I read Mandi’s piece. I am in awe of the courage and talent of this woman. Mandi’s Story, is without question, one of the most beautiful love stories I have ever read. It will stay with me, it will stay in my heart.
I am a lazy blogger. It probably isn’t a secret. Most of my posts are unpolished and clearly just an unwinding of something within me. Lately, they aren’t even new, just links to things I have already written that are appearing elsewhere. In truth, I haven’t been writing a lot the past few weeks; I write every day, but some days the words are few and feel miles from anything remotely palatable.
Most often, here and outside of the blog, I write without direction. I don’t do research or develop plot lines. I put in the time and the work, but I let the words themselves guide me. I revisit them and change them, smash them and polish them, especially with my poetry, but I don’t approach them with forethought. I suppose the unwinding is simply my writing process, but this saturates me with self-doubt; I always return to the idea that I must be doing it wrong, that I don’t have the tools to do it right. I am terrified that I will finally discover what I have feared all along, that I am a fraud.
Continue reading “Fraud”
Toward the end of last year, I started writing a bit more about the ways in which RP affects my physical life and tried to answer some questions. One question that I haven’t answered, posed by two of my fellow bloggers and friends, Mandi and Tom, is about how my other senses are affected as my sense of sight is swallowed up by RP.
There are differing opinions about this. Some people say that the idea of your other senses getting stronger is a myth, others think it is pure fantasy – who doesn’t want to be DareDevil after all? I think it is an inevitability, but also something that can be cultivated over time.
Continue reading “A Hundred Secret Senses”
I was determined to become more disciplined, more succinct in keeping my blog alive. I was going to post twice a week. I have a number of blog posts in the making. But I forgot about the ways that life creeps up and grabs me by the throat, dashing whatever lofty plans I may have conjured up. I have imagined myself as so many things, believed myself to be so much more than I am. I have accepted illusion over reality, climbed into the sounds of myself breaking and shattering, as if these were acts of bravery. I convinced myself it was strength, believed that I was strong, but my reflection shows a woman who is frail and swallowed up by shadows. Time and again I am a disappointment to myself.
I have deemed the machinations of my mind defective, deceitful and irreparably flawed. I have tethered myself to affliction, called my reality depression, but perhaps the threads that comprise the fabric of who I am have always been weak and frayed. Perhaps blindness is not only my physical affliction, but my emotional and intellectual affliction as well.
I have called myself a kind person, because kindness is the only thing I believed gave me value, but I am not always kind. I have called myself a good friend, but I am not a good friend. I am the friend who disappears, who retreats from the world into selfish and silent spaces. I have called myself a good wife, but how can I be a good wife when the weight of my existence is a burden? I have called myself an equal, but how can I stand next to someone when my steps are always too small, too timid? I have called myself smart, but how can I be smart when I understand so little.
I don’t write these things, ask these questions, to be reassured of an opposite reality, but to capture images and expression from the disappearing spaces I step into with abandon. I allow my breath to become a kind of silence that numbs the ache to escape the shackles of who I am. I release the weight of my skin and fall into who I have always been, rather than who I think I am meant to be.
We all travel on paths that veer and rise and plummet. We all grab onto hope and search for love. We all wear masks. It is in the removing of those masks, in those moments of darkness when the truth of my frailty lays bare like a wound, that I see through my blindness, and fear that without it, I am nothing.