Why I Write.

This post was written for the current PFAM blog carnival, hosted this round by Sharon at Bed, Body, and Beyond.

I have been avoiding writing this post. No, scratch that, I have been avoiding writing. Period. I could say this is because it’s the end of the semester, that I’m busy with teaching and editing and advising. I could say that I’ve been busy preparing for the holidays, that I haven’t been home much. But none of that would be entirely true.

I have a Flannery O’Connor quote in my profile that reads “I write to discover what I know.” And right now? I’m avoiding writing because I’m afraid to face what I already know. I never wanted this blog to be only a place for me to whine and complain, and I feel like lately that’s all I’ve been thinking about. I’ve been moping about all the things that illness has taken from me. Because the truth is that despite a few good days, the past month has been immeasurably difficult. And part of the difficulty comes from the fact that I persist in the charade that I am still as able-bodied as I ever was. When I’m not.

As the holidays approach, I can’t help but think about all the things I used to do that I can’t do right now: crochet and knit, hand-make holiday cards, roll out cookies and pie crusts, stand in the kitchen cooking and baking all day, making preserves and candy and sauces to give to friends and family as gifts. I have always shown my love with the work of my hands. I hope that there will be a day in the future when I can do all these things again. But I don’t know that. Because my desire to do those things can only take me as far as my body’s new limitations. And to be truthful I feel physically worse right now than I have in a long time. I’m frustrated, I’m sad, and I’m struggling to be hopeful. I knew all that already, but it still stings when I type it out in the little Blogger “new post” window.

I’m not very good at asking for emotional support when I need it. I don’t like to be seen as needy, or melodramatic, or weak, and so it’s hard for me to reach out. I suppose this blog is my tiny way of reaching out. Extending my life and my empathy in the hope of multiplying the amount of care I am capable of both receiving and giving.

Tomorrow I see a new rheumatologist and continue this convoluted journey of diagnosis and treatment.  And I will continue to write about it. Even if my insights about myself and my life sometimes sting. Because ultimately I write for you: young, old, newly diagnosed, undiagnosed, long-diagnosed, wise, innocent, happy, sad, hopeful, disabled, able-bodied, brilliant, contemplative, compassionate you. Thank you for being my reader. You help me to know my self and the world.

No matter what these illnesses take from me, they will not take my ability to think and create in some form. No matter how fast—or slow—I type, it’s still always one letter at a time.