The Writer In You...

INTRODUCTION: (UPDATED 09/29/2023)

Thursday, May 5, 2016, at 5:30 am...

Silencing the blaring alarm on my cellphone supplied me a with a false sense of security. My goal was simple. I desperately needed to sneak in a few precious moments of sleep before getting out of bed to begin my morning routine. Before proceeding to work, my routine was an exactly what a person like me needed most to structure my day and keep my life on focused. After tussling over the much-needed discipline required to overpower my fatigued muscles and bones, I finally decided to get up and let the show begin.

Unfortunately for me, I didn't make it to work that day. I didn't drive to downtown Dallas where I was employed or catch the train to the building I was always eager to enter. Worst of all, I found myself in a state in which I wasn't fit to attempt any sort of physical activity.

You see, my health took a nose-dive on Thursday, May 5, 2016.

After a few years of asking the question, "Why me," I am no closer to understanding what happened or why.

The only thing I know for sure is that something went wrong in my body and I had no idea exactly when it started or if I was doomed to live in the severely damaged shell of myself for the rest of my life.

All I know for sure is that everything changed so drastically on that day.
Shortly after that day I found myself without meaningful employment while locked in a battle to access a social benefit I had been paying for since I was 11 years old. I can tell you that the battles I undertook when I became I'll were tragic experiences within themselves, but that is another story for another day.

Eventually, I found myself totally and completely unable to return to any type of work at all. During the two years after my health sharply declined, I prepared myself for the fight of my life as I navigated the murky waters known as applying for Social Security disability benefits.

With each doctor insisting they couldn't find anything that would cause my legs to stop working properly, I was at a loss for words. Even though I tried desperately to figure out what was wrong with me, the medical professionals pretty much insisted the test they had run came back without one single factor that would support my claims of fatigue, pain, and overall malaise.

I continued along the same train of thought wondering how in the world a person who previously had worked two jobs was supposed to transition into doing absolutely nothing,

It was the one question that raced around my mind day in and day out.

The doctors had not nothing.
I had zero answers.

I felt myself slowly going mad.

I was getting so bored with staring at the four walls in my living room that I truly believed I just might pull every strand of hair out my head if something didn't change, soon.

Had it not been for my therapist encouraging me to start journaling, I surely would have driven myself insane.

As I consider the advice she offered back then, I am eternally grateful that I sought mental help in those days. Not only was I living under the enormous pressure of unemployment and health issues, but I was also in the middle of a nasty divorce.

I started out fully invested in my version of journaling, but that didn't work for long. Pretty soon, I was ready to throw in the towel because I had never been big on exposing my emotions or my feelings to anyone. I grew up during a time when men were told to never let people see them cry.

The idea of allowing others to know about all the hurt and pain I was carrying around wasn't something I cared to do.

As a young girl, I believed guys had it made. My logic at that time was simple. If they couldn't cry, neither would I. Even if I was hurting desperately, I always willed myself to never allow anyone to see me cry.