Nothings Gonna Change My World: Book Update

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While I have been talking about penning my story for some time, I finally feel that I am in a place to share how I have been connecting the dots to my narrative and how the experiences in my life has been in a constant state of motion, all in an effort to tell me something about myself. Speaking to how the veil was lifted and how I have leaned into the storm, although I’ve known there’s been much to fear. Share my roots that are deep and true and an understanding as to why I speak with an accent or two. How the power of credence has been absorbed due to the distresses and how suffering only comes when you yearn for things to be different. In its place, focusing on illuminating a little bit of my soul; with an introduction beyond my normal sentences about cancer. Like, what came before my diagnosis, and the valleys and mountains it has taken to get me here, a place to share my “Once Upon a Time.”

It is in the outline/transcribing process at the moment, but nevertheless in progress. Please stay tuned for more updates as I continue my novella.

-Nothings Gonna Change My World-

-Britt xx

 

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Back from the Atmosphere: 🌏 

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Real talk, I’ve been a tad on the emosh lately — for so many reasons.  The teeniest, tiniest things have the power to set me off in an array of passions and personalities that I didn’t know exist.  Lets face it, it’s been a long time since I’ve lived, instead of existing to survive.  Naturally overwhelmed by my affections, I’ve realized I’ve been covering up my scars with paint and I’m finally ready to wash away its taint. The very same taint that tortured me for the past three, almost four years.  Yet, in its wonder I have continuously been learning that my most painful trials can be rewarded with the most salient growth.

I have failed to balance my writing, or, rather share my writing because I felt stuck on a road with no end. No end to the endless days of pain, but keeping hope in my mind that life could once again be kind.  It seemed like a dream, a place far away from my reality, as I was encased in flesh and bones, yet desperate for life in my veins.

Month after month following my HIPEC surgery were spent under the covers. Forgetting all of the faces and all the different places I have been. It made no sense in my mind that I should feel lucky to be alive, while dealing with such agony.  In my dreams my tears were chilled to the bone, I couldn’t remember what it was to feel alive.

The brilliant medical team at Mayo would remind me that patience is a virtue and that my body has been sliced, diced and poisoned to the nth degree.  It seemed as though  I was walking alone, and no one was following. It wasn’t just pain from the recovery — my body was telling me something wasn’t right.  Just like every other instance, my body was insistent on a pain so severe that it made me call for the man in the sky.

Friends would ask, “How are you?”

Great, fine. Just not healing as fast as I’d hope,” I’d reply practically lying through my teeth because I didn’t have any answers.  The fib would then be followed by an exclaiming, happy heart face emoji.  This all in an effort to indicate that I wasn’t hiding inside a cage, but was instead a warrior. The way so many seem to view me.

Meanwhile I hated leaving the house, much less get out of my infamous monogrammed, “B.K.O.”, black robe. I only wanted to be home, where I belonged, where I could put sorrow on the record player and smoke until I found a heavenly place to fall from grace.

.It was now March and by this point I had a decent amount of post op appointments with “da team.”

“Doc, I literally feel World War III erupting in my insides.”

I wasn’t saying that loosely, or to be insensitive given the current political climate, but quite frankly I felt that after months of bitching and getting nowhere, it was an obligatory analogy.  Even if my example was a bit crass, it turns out that I got my point across and at last the Doc’s realized I wasn’t complaining because it was good for my health. Okay, bad pun.  Yet, they actually began to understand and realize the severity of my pangs. I was no longer drowning under their belief that my body was behaving “normally,“

I digress — off to the Urologist. Let me tell you, I’ve never met a man more in love with his job. Urine banter and all that it entails to “void,” is his pride and joy and I had a feeling that just maybe, just maybe, he’d magic up the culprit to my evils.

Sure enough, he did. I was having issues doing one of the most basic human bodily functions, i.e. wee, wee-wee, number one, pee, piss, U-R-I-N-A-T-E — g*ddamnit.

“I mean, WTF is wrong with me now?”, I would scream to myself.

Nevertheless and lucky for me, after months of complaining, it only took two appointments with, Dr.Piddle for him to solve the current mystery this body of mine riddled.

A Magician, perhaps — or just a man so passionate about liquid body waste that he becomes golden, baby. Of course it took several uncomfortable and down right miserable tests that forced me into a state of meditation that my mere existence relied upon.

Once the worse was over, the mystery was revealed. My abdomen/pelvic region had been so invaded over the course of the past few years that my muscles, including my bladder, is in a constant spasm state. Suddenly the hell I had been enduring made perfect sense — I was practically having constant f*cking contractions.

The real rabbit out of the hat was that there is no magic cure — except six months of physical therapy. Annoyed by the lack of instant gratification, I made the offering and obliged under his respective Doctor order.

Right after my first session of “PT”, as the cool kids call it, I decided that my body deserved physical therapy. It was time to let go of all the marks that have settled in my skin. Knead out the all of the suffering, trauma to my guts and the scar tissue both mentally and physically.

Since then I have returned to yoga, wake up during daylight, clean the house without paying for it later and come together with my mains for cocktails and a good old fashion gossip sesh’. Best of all, I have released the pause button on feeling secure enough in my health to make future life plans with my loving and endlessly supportive husband.

When you look at me, you wouldn’t know that I am lucky to be alive. You’d think I was the picture of perfect health. The long and short of it is that each day brings its own sets of challenges and I am privy to the fact that healing is a life long endeavor.  Even so, maybe this time it worked.

Updates to follow…

Love,
Britt x

Love Letter: Dear Life,

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My Darling Life,

I forget myself and as time ticks on I wonder where do you go. You always know where I am going, the finale and everything that cascades in between. The American-Brit, with the famous eyes. I miss the days of seeing everything through the looking glass, blooming like a rose. Surviving now by looking over my shoulder and feeling older. There were spells when I doubted you and I assumed I’d be better off without. When did everything get so complicated?

Like the lullabies that were caroled in the shaping days of my youth, somehow it’s still those words that speak my truth. Nowadays I read horoscopes to tell me everything is going to be okay because my hope has turned to sand. Troubled by broken dreams, I believed in this life until my heart and soul was turned into a weapon of persistence.

This time I’ve decided to be self-righteous, lift my head and try again. Life, it is abundantly clear that you revive me again and again and nothing I write will ever be able to sum you up. Just when I forget where I have been, you remind me in the end you compose my verse and to linger onto my love, my life.

Love,

Britt xx

I’ve Got 96 Prob’z:

And Four Makeup Looks Ain’t None

Face//MAC

Beanie//H&M

Choker//XXIForever

Shirt//Hubby

<Husband’s Style Steal coming soon>

Jacket//LevisDenim

MakeupMakeup2

Makeup4Makeup1Makeup3

Britt x