I begin to write

Whether I write more out of necessity or desire, I do not know. But here I am and here I write. I feel I have precious little idea what I am doing, but I hope that will not stop me.

A book I’m reading (but am reluctant to finish) prompted me to write. In Losing My Mind, many of Thomas DeBaggio’s words strike close to my heart — I, too, find myself losing my mind through biology gone amiss. There are differences in tune, rhythm, and tempo, but it is still the same dance. No one wants to start the dance of neurological deterioration early, but there is rarely a choice. Reading the book, I felt less alone. Many of his words could have been mine. And it occurred to me that one doesn’t often hear from the other side of brain damage, at least not when it’s very significant. DeBaggio is a writer, though; I am not. What makes me think I can write? The degree snatched from me was in engineering, but I’ve never found writing essays dull. I often find speaking and writing difficult, but I almost always find typing readily accomplishable. I can write, but I’ll make no claim as to how well. It is nice to have an outlet and I like the idea of giving people a glimpse into my world if they should stumble across this space. And I have nothing to lose

It struck me that perhaps someone who comes across this weblog, if they don’t know me, might think it’s a joke, that she who writes such posts as these cannot possibly possess what problems she says she has. I have mixed feelings about that. On the one hand, it seems silly to me because I know how I am; on the other, such a reaction would deny the issue and do no good. But I shouldn’t think on that too much.

I’d like to write about my goals for this, but I’ve taken three separate sessions in writing this post so far and now I’m lost in it.

I am here. I will not be conquered.

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