Life, in my uber humble experience, has its fair amount of eggshells. And I’m treading on them.
Some of those eggshells have names. A fair number of them can be called ASD, or Autism, or Asperger’s. Another collection is called Twins, or Ferals, or just plain ‘what the heck happened there?’ Then there are the Fibromyalgia eggshells, with select scatterings called Fatigue and Pain. Scattered in between these biggies are the other eggshells of life: friends, husband, school, work, hobbies, money. That’s a lot of eggshells I’m treading on.
When the eggshells get too prickly, I write.
Out of the writing my soul moves from frustration, pain, confusion, exhaustion and bewilderment to a sense that I can do this. I got it. Eat my dust world.
Out of writing comes a sense of clarity, of purpose, of good old well-being, an ability to pick myself up, dust off the eggshells, and start tip-toeing between them again, knowing that actually, I’m doing ok. And ok is enough.
When I’m tired of the fight, I write.
When I don’t know what else to do, I write.
When it doesn’t make sense, when it all seems unfair, when I’m shouting their praises, and when I’m not. When they’ve drawn up the walls or there’s mud in my hair. When there are appointments to keep and noses to be wiped. When there are celebrations to be had, memories to remember, milestones achieved. I write. When there are tears or when there are smiles, when the roadblock’s been busted.
I write about the good, the bad, the ugly, and the bits in between. I write so that I remember to find my Kiwi and Spoon in life. I write to navigate the eggshells. Writing is my map. The eggshells are my journey. Come join me there. It’s one hell of a ride.