I have never seen myself as the kind of person whose life follows ordinary paths. Nor did I ever want to.
For a long while, I never wanted to get married. That plan clearly worked out well.
I never wanted to be an editor. A quick look at my resumé shows that mindset went far.
Everyone and their mother has a blog, about cooking, about photography, on traveling, on themselves—because they are, of course, the most fascinating topic there is. So of course I would never have a blog. How very unoriginal. And I have now failed at that too; why break the streak now? (But then, my title was available, which means no one else in the entire world had ever thought of such a thought. Right?)
So here I am: a married, former freelance editor—blogging. What next, a short haircut?!
However, each of those “never wills” becoming fact had very good reasons:
1) God had better plans—I met my husband when I wasn’t even trying to, and my appearance was likewise unexpected for him. We’ve been thrilled to death with the surprise ever since.
2) Money doesn’t grow on trees—I had just graduated college, and the publishing field was my only realm of occupational experience. Plus grammar and I are good friends, after all.
3) I need to speak—where people can listen if they want, ignore if they want, but either way I will have spoken. And farther than my fingertips.
Yes, my life is not what I once intended, in many positive ways. But it is also not what I intended, in what certainly feels like are less than positive ways.
I am in my early twenties, a newlywed, living in my first apartment with my absolutely incredible husband. I look completely fine, happy, and healthy. But I am not.
I cannot blame the world for assuming I am the former. The mirror would lie to me too, except the problem is I also feel the inside and know that all is not fine, happy, and healthy.
Everyone has felt the wind as it tears through the trees, swirls through leaves, sometimes merciless and unignorable, sometimes soft and almost escaping our consciousness. But certainly there.
What color is the wind? Can you see it? Can you paint it? Of course not. But it’s still clearly there, because you feel it on your face and your hands…
Fibromyalgia is invisible. I look fine. But I am far from it. You can’t see it. I can’t even see it. But, boy, do I feel it. And I am reminded every minute of every day that it is real—just as real as the wind.
Now, why am I commencing this blog instead of just venting on Facebook when the notion hits? Several reasons: I really don’t want to subject my friends to constant ups and downs of my life, my struggles therein, and my philosophical discoveries gained thereby when they’re not looking for such things, and especially when they have their own trials to deal with. Further, Facebook statuses are so short and so unsatisfying. Facebook notes are a step closer but get lost on people’s walls and ignored and are only open to Facebook friends. A blog, however, is meant to be open to anyone who cares to read and wishes to be educated and encouraged by such reading, and I feel what all is to follow can be both to far more people than the five who would read any regular Facebook notes by me.
So is this blog going to be one of those I mentioned earlier? Not just a blog, but one about myself—because I am just so fascinating? It will, I confess, contain much about me. But it will more so be an attempt to make the wind visible, so that you don’t have to just be told it exists, you can begin to see what it looks like. And to know that it is quite real.