Oh, what a summer it has been.

Oh, what a summer it has been.

It’s felt like a marathon - but a marathon run by someone who has not trained for it…with that someone being me.

Instead of gracefully gliding along, it’s as though I’ve crashed into a water station along the way, spilling the tiny cups everywhere, falling dramatically onto the pavement, and then getting up and running away in shame, not wanting to alert anyone to my immediate pain, nor to be the cause a pile-up of others in my wake.

It’s a metaphor that is rather apt, if I do say so myself:

“The crash” was losing my job at the beginning of August, the “stumble into the water cart” was me trying to figure what I possibly could’ve done wrong to deserve this, the “hard fall onto rough asphalt” was the financial hardship that this caused/perpetuated, and the “embarrassment as I run away” was my natural aversion to asking for help, even from the kind folks that are right next to me.

And it feels as though each month is another marathon to endure, as I squabble to make rent, find a job worthy of my skillset, lessen my aspirations and try to find just any job that will take me, and face it all alone.

It’s been tough, but also, it’s not a marathon.

In all reality, it is [whatever the sport is called when you pass the baton the next person and everyone gets a chance to run and rest]…(I studied acting for 11 years by the time I was 22; I do not know sports).  In sum: it’s a team sport, and I’ve been thinking I am all alone.

This has resulted in complete exhaustion, further isolation, and has pushed me dangerously close to the Chronic Illness Line - which, if you cross it, teleports you into a world where your health becomes your full time job: weighed down by the stress of keeping up with new meds, new doctors, extra appointments, more bills, more meds, and the extra appointments you forgot to write down because their admin called when you were taking a nap – your health becomes all you can do.

There is such a thing as “too much” wellness when you have a chronic illness, because of the simple fact that you could meditate for the rest of your life, and still it would not cure nor take away your diagnosis.  Because “chronic.”

So there’s a balance that is hard to find my necessary to embrace, where you accept a diminished quality of life so that you can have one at all.

That is what I am seeking.

And all I want to do is write my book and advocate for those who are stumbling like me as we search for not a cure for our illnesses, but the solution to live happily with the extra baggage that illness carries.

I want to be their voice as theirs heals.

I want to belt out my story as loud as I can in hopes that it might be heard by even one person who can make it easier for someone else.

I want to demystify and destigmatize having a disease or trauma or neurodiversity to hiring managers, HR, others’ families, and to those living through it themselves.

But now I have the basic need for survival thrown into the mix and I am flailing.

The marathon has added rings of fire as I struggle to make rent every damn month, and those hoops seem to get a bit higher, as time fades on and I lose more of myself to this benign race. 

Losing income didn’t just change my “day to day” it sabotaged my entire plan.

I am so far behind in my book, spending all my hours, energy, and spoons trying to survive in this world that I want to change.

SO.  That all given, what can I do?

I don’t have the luxury to lament, nor the finances to cross the Chronic Line and dedicate myself full-time to current problems like my body still perceiving food as a threat.

No, it is capitalism first, health second - which means I need to start seeing all of this like a job.

It takes more than starving to be a starving artist.

I need to create again.

In that metaphorical marathon, I think that in the crash and fall that enveloped me in shame, my confidence tumbled out and skid away.

And as I get up and lick my wounds, and can others with scars of their own, someone in the scuffle found my confidence and handed it back to me.

That someone is you.

You, who is reading this; you, who has invested in my story and my words; you, who supported my GoFundMe and kept a roof over my head - you have given me back my courage.

And with that I can brave through this next race, knowing I have people cheering me on as I go.

What’s Next?

• Surviving! See the buttons below for two ways to chip in.

• Click here for my Shop, wich is specifically for investing in Unremarkable

• And lastly, I have something brewing that will be up and running by the end of the week!

  Come back soon to find out!