The Conundrum of Writing…But Really, Lyme

If you don’t know what to write about, or if you are overwhelmed with a variety of topics and stories jumbling around in your mind, then start to write about writing itself.

The most ironic thing is I’ve been writing for years. Yet ever since I came down with a debilitating case of Lyme disease two years ago, it’s been a stretch of the mind to plunk myself down and just begin. Writing was an everyday-occurrence during my graduate-study days. Memory of accolades from Ph.D professors asking to share my papers with their future classes and encouraging me to go further, now triggers a cringed reaction where I scrunch my shoulders and eyes to forget about the pain and loss of cognitive function I endured.

Two years ago, you could have pictured me sitting in my pastel-paisley reading chair, icepack in my right hand placed upon my head, second icepack on the tiny side table- a mere arm’s length away, and windows closed in sunny-breezy-summertime weather. Burning hot, painful and pressured migraines were the name of the game on a daily basis. Shooting pains that ricocheted up from the base of my neck and into the sides and back of my brain was commonplace. I attempted to prevent this experience hourly. Did I succeed? Not very well at first, but more on that later.

Thanks to an itty bitty baby tick that lodged itself unbeknownst to me on my right thigh (two years and 2 months ago) I spent the last two years of my life resigned from work, immobile at first, and battling pressure migraines with a warrior-fierceness I had no idea existed within. I suppose that fierceness- that raw grasp for survival- led me to completely diverge from my past-life track.

What I remember severely is not remembering. I recall picking up a book to relax with, reading one sentence and throwing the book down in tears without a clue of what I just read. I remember walking from one room to the next in my little old-apartment, racking my brain & yelling to nobody “what the heck(!?) am I here for?” and “what in the world was I supposed to do next?” I recall starting a pot of water and boiling it to burnt, as I laid down for an hour forgetting my intentions to cook dinner. This forgetfulness was constant; an ever shifting-mind of jumbled thoughts called ‘the brain.’
“What was this mush anyway?” I angrily retorted.

I grieved for the cognitive ability to think in words. Speech evaded me. Cohesive thought was challenging. How was I going to write? Was my brain forever-relegated to be a painful mush of non-thought?

I previously prided myself with my creative forte; my narrative voice and an ability to construct cute or witty sentences to get my point across while sounding sort-of smart.

Two years later and a part of me continues to worry I won’t be able to write like I used to. Even as I write these words my brain feels pained and I know I still have a ways to go. It is almost torturous, but also empowering at the same time. “If you only knew where I’ve been before,” I’d say.

In reality, the year I lost my brain was the year I discovered the miraculous power of sharing the narrative story and of sharing the written word. So here I continue; let the truth arise and let the healing of old wounds carry me forward.