Since the beginning of the blog a few people have encouraged me to turn my story into a book. Many have recommended just pulling together some of my blog posts, probably just because it would be an easy solution, and I appreciate that. The problem is that from the moment of that first headache, I have edited my story. Big key pieces. Major details. A few friends, and of course family, know bits of the truth, but only Danny and I know everything. Of course, as I have lived deeper and deeper into this diagnosis, I have lessened my editing, but there are (what I believe to be) significant details that people need to know in order to truly understand our lives, and this journey.
I started writing my story last year, and remained with only a page and a half until recently. It has been hard to feel motivated. The whole concept was overwhelming, in fact it was emotionally draining. The catalyst, my inspiration, was my new desk. My grandma is now living in a physical rehab facility, she can no longer live alone, so I became a proud owner of a really cool roll top desk. Somehow, with all the little compartments, and drawers, and the neat way it closes to hide all my junk, I get excited to write. I even came up with the perfect plan, and it has been working. I'm writing a page each day, M-F.
The thing that people don't realize, can't comprehend (not their fault), is that this story - although I've been writing it for years - is my life. Fingers have been in my brain. Literally. A few times. It's emotional. It's shocking, and almost unbelievable. The tricky part is that you guys don't know the whole story, the truth of what all happened. When I read the first four pages the other night to Dan, I slowly spun around in my chair to see what he thought. It was dark, and all I could see was the silhouette of his head. I stared at him, confused as to why he wasn't speaking, but when I moved closer I realized he was crying. Not a sob cry, but tears streaming down his face cry. He loved what I wrote, but it was still hard for him to hear. Hard for him to relive. Painful to go back to that place. This is real, and it was big. And to relive it each day by writing it out will be taxing. For a hot minute I thought writing it all out would be therapeutic, but quickly I realized that was stupid. I don't need to go back to that time to work anything out, or process things any further. Regurgitating all of the memories, and feelings, are necessary to write the book, but not necessary in life.
The undertaking of writing this book, of putting it all in a concise story, piecing it together, is very, very tough. My goal is to finish a rough draft by the time I hit 35, which is in a year and a half.
It has been incredibly helpful to do this blog, to document, and share, but there is so much more to tell. And finally, I'm ready to lay it all out there.
My new writing nook:
And when I'm done with the intended makeover it will look somewhat like this:
