Trigger warning: heavy shit incoming. Look away now if you’re scared.
One year and some months since my last surgery. Five surgeries total in my lifetime, one major. Four of those surgeries involved my pathetic excuses for reproductive organs.
One pregnancy that culminated in a miracle.
One that didn’t.
Nine years since I discovered Nikola Tesla and Douglas Hofstadter.
Nine years with my longest-term partner.
Four years is all I’d had before I lost my other long-term partner to natural causes.
Two women that broke my heart after two years.
Two years since I’ve been raped.
Seven years since I last cut myself.
Nine years since I tried to commit suicide.
Fifteen years since I was first raped (I was molested almost from the time I could walk, but I don’t include that here).
Fifteen years since I started writing stories and doing my own research.
Thirteen books published as of this Friday the 13th.
It’s my writing anniversary. I’ve been writing these crazy stories for fifteen years now. What does that mean? How do I celebrate it? These stories aren’t simply fun and fancy; they’re my story. They are how I survived. They are how I began to heal, although healing never truly ends. They are how I began to change my view of the world from a place of helplessness and invisibility to a place of wonder and creation. It all started with The Black Tree series. It will all end with The End of the Beginning. The middle…well, that’s a different story.
Is it an accomplishment that I’ve been writing this long? Does it mean anything that I still write by hand, putting pen to paper in a most sinister way?
The books that I’m publishing this year are a lot closer to my heart. They deal with experiences that I have survived. They deal with the dark and twisted thoughts I once thought. They were first written during the darkest periods of my life. They were the only places I could find the answers I needed. To look back on how depressed, empty, and suicidal I was is a surreal experience. When I think of what I’ve been through, I can’t imagine how I lived through it.
What was that fight that kept me going? How did I reassert my voice as the loudest one in my head after so many others screamed into it? How did I learn to accept and revel in my weirdness?
Where did all these words come from? What is this massive, interconnected world that I’ve created and why does it matter? Does it matter? Am I the only one who can appreciate it?
Other people say that I’ve inspired them to start writing their own stories. That I’ve inspired them to start writing at all. Have I really done something so wonderful? Have I really touched other lives?
Have I really come so far in fifteen years? Where did this joy come from?
I have been looking back through time, via my stories and with my partner, and there is so much pain and loss there. And yet here I am. Full, whole, happy. Healing. And I wanted to share that with those who did or will do the same. In fifteen years I’ll have been writing for thirty years (I doubt I’ll ever stop). What do all these numbers mean? What do they really show? I’ve been on this Earth 26, nearly 27 years. What do these numbers say about me and do I really care?
All those terrible, precious moments. Happy anniversary to me, whatever the day. Every day, every moment, is the anniversary of something. I lose count sometimes.