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I'm a Work in Progress

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I thought I had disappeared again but here I am, back in front of the computer banging out words on the keyboard not quite with the gusto of yesteryears but nonetheless, here I am.

I miss writing. It's something that's fallen to the wayside for far too long. Maybe it was the fibromyalgia and its best friend fatigue that took away enough energy to curb what had always been an almost obsessive need to write. The fibromyalgia took a lot from me but that's a story for another day.

Movie Star

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I don't think I've ever talked it here, my pathological fear of public speaking and how much I hate having my photo taken. Speaking in public rated up there with jumping out of a plane and the photos, yeah, nah, I'd rather not.

The Serious Business of Being Me

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So, we're back here, at least for this morning. I get up and I can't wait to write. I make my coffee to kick start the day and since I rearranged my room yesterday, I end up at my desk and computer instead of at the kitchen table.

It's a return to times bygone. The keyboard is in front of me begging me to touch it, and so I start tapping on the keys, at first a little hesitant but then it starts to flow.

The Path Spiritual

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I'm still finding it hard to find the peace to sit down and write. It's become a foreign process; it's become something weird.

Writing used to be my main way of expressing myself but for some reason, in the past few years, it's become synonymous with work and not with an expressive and creative process.

I have a fair idea how it got that way even if it doesn't really make sense to anyone else but me.

I'm back, I am

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It's been brewing for a while, the will to write, the need to spew my guts in the blog corner of the world. So, here I am, back again,  but I'm a changed woman, or at least I think I am.

Gone are the days of my nervous breakdown; that is after all where this thing started. I can barely remember what it felt like back then. The awful and complicated relationship with O, and everything else. I suspect life was harder back then. Everything seems a lot less complicated now, except for writing. Writing seems complicated. Writing seems like I haven't quite figured out who I am yet, like I'm waiting for form an opinion and to grow up.

I'll be OK, just not today

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My mother has Alzeheimer's. Over the course of six months I have watched from a distance how my mother seems to be disappearing bit by bit.

I'm watching from a distance because I live in Australia and she lives in Sweden. I'm watching from a distance how my father and brother have tried to kind of cover it up. I though, realised that things were rapidly changing when there seemed to be gaps in how she remembered me, when her picture of me had become romanticized and sanitized, as though once the gaps in her memories started appearing she was filling them with more palatable "truths".

I'm watching from a distance and my brother and father wants me to jump on a plane so I can see her before she dies, but I know, I know on the deepest soul and heart level, that she's not present anymore. At all.

It's Day Something of my Radical Something-Something Project

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You can't trust me. I set out on a new and shiny path and I don't follow through. I feel a little like that about my whole life at the moment but I do realize that it's mostly related to any creative endeavours I embark on.  But, here's a "funny" fact about my radical self-love project:

I well and truly followed through on it, I just stopped documenting it here, and in the new true Spilling Ink fashion I sat down and contemplated why.

And, in the process of contemplating why, I found that there are more things I like about myself nowadays than there are things I don't. This came as quite a surprise to me but it was a good surprise, kind of like getting a Christmas present you had thought of but didn't think to wish for because it seemed a little too much of a stretch.

Oh, my hair still kind of tops the list.