Day 1- OMG, Afropunk!
So it seems the little engine could. It’s official- I passed all my Bar exams. This part of my life’s path was the definition of hard. I learned that struggle was a lousy but consistent bedfellow and giving up has never tempted me more. Those closest to me can give witness statements (Lol, ok, lemme not)– can give testimony as to how much it took to cross the finish line. The last lap was the most
1. I still start posts with “Wow. How do I start this?”. Beginnings aren’t always easy. Writers know this. Sometimes your beginning unfolds at the end of the story. I think that’s pretty awesome- writers are time travelers. I thought about saying writers invented time travel but I dare not upset scientists for the sake of a joke. I rang in 2014 with friends I loved- we broke plates and danced and laughed and promised this year we’d leave the crappiest parts of 2013 behind, frolic and flourish like no year before. Well…. we did do all that …eventually but I don’t think we knew just how different 2014 was going to end from how it started. Still, with how amazing it is for me right now, in this moment- as I write this post with a little over 6 hours left in the year- I think we brought in this year in the best style. I look back at pictures from the past 365 1/4 days and I am content.
This post is a heavy one. I enlisted the help of 6 other women to help spread awareness about something as real as any chronic illness but which often times gets downplayed- anxiety. All the statistics in the world can’t describe the paralyzing effect of anxiety and many are walking around without any knowledge that they or someone close to them suffers from this. If this post helps even one person, it will have done its job. Italicized are my thoughts during and after an anxiety attack.
(Each woman was asked to write one paragraph. Some wrote more. Some experienced anxiety at the thought of writing about it. I’m grateful each pushed through to share.)
1….Ok, here it comes..try to fight it
I’ve always been known as the worry wart. I remember distinctly someone calling me that in the ninth grade. I think, over the years, it accumulated until around my second year in university when shit hit the fan.