It’s taken me a while to post these images, but I feel this colourful afternoon spent in my garden, with bursting blooms and this gorgeously fresh face (plus my mad photography skills) had to be shared with you!
My youngest sister Jorgia was amazing enough to help me out with a back-yard photo shoot for ‘Fren’ magazine, the final submission of my Visual Communication major in November last year. This shoot drew on the concept of the flourishing mind, adding to the magazine’s content which dealt explicitly around the notions of generating awareness and understanding around mental health. Continue reading
Why write? And why is it so rewarding to do so? Why create a blog and not just a diary?
I started pondering these notions today, and decided I’d write a little piece enlightening you as to why and how Mud & Bralettes came to be, and furthermore, how writing about experiences or hardships can lead to so many positive effects. Sometimes context is just as relevant as content, after all.
Writing has always been one of my most luxurious, yet frustrating pursuits. Up until last year I hadn’t written anything outside of school since I was 13 years old. I hadn’t managed to finish a piece of writing since I was 11, when I busied myself creating a series of interactive flap books called Nutkins’ Mail for my 2 younger sisters. Nutkins was a squirrel. A bit of a furry legend. His greatest love in life was sending and receiving mail from his many forest friends. Pondering morals at a young age, A+. Who needs that bible book, Nutkins has you sorted.
I received my ‘injecting’ license 2 years before I received my pen license. I probably wouldn’t trust a writer who wielded a needle better than a pencil at age 8, either. Since then, writing has become one of the main ways of dealing with the chronic conditions that have uncurled themselves in my body and mind over my 24 years. After Diabetes type 1 decided to stay in 1996, chronic depression and anxiety disorder plagued my high school years and beyond, these 3 conditions were followed most recently by a diagnosis of diabetic gastroparesis in January this year.
I probably wouldn’t trust a writer who wielded a needle better than a pencil at age 8, either.
I was recently hospitalised, and bestowed upon by a new diagnosis. One that has bubbled away for 2 years or more, un-named. Whilst you probably don’t need any more updates about my life, this is my first attempt at getting linguistic about the matter. Life has changed drastically, and with it the content of this blog has altered once more. I am focused on keeping it real, so whilst I never wanted to exert too much written energy on the pitfalls of living with chronic illness, we must both be here for a reason? I suggest reading it if you’re feeling bored, or linguistic, or perhaps just strangely curious about matters of the mind and stomach.
I took in the length of the full bathroom mirror, jolting at my emptiness. Light reflected in pointed pits. Hips, ribs, collar. Angles leering out like frail, sour sailors. A gown stitched of bone, and skin. Retreating to the shower, hot water ran down my back as I drew the curtain around myself. Hidden from glass by nylon. Hidden from myself, until downward glanced back up. Drapes, denial. Hope. Hope Hollow. Coming and going. Wilted, and sprouting. My skinny secret, half digested and weary. Outside the mirror blushed with steam. Reflections waiting hungrily. Inside, trails of salt turned shower water milky on my cheeks. But in the shower tears aren’t really there.
I took in the length of the full mirror, jolting at my emptiness. Light reflected in pointed pits. Hips, ribs, collar. Angles leering out like frail, sour sailors. A gown stitched of bone, and skin.
Nature has cloaked my adversities in appearance. They are well lived, but hard to live in. Well hidden, but well felt. My story is a secret one. My history, a lean one. But for a bum that teases the next size up. Tits that seem to oscillate like small lilies, confused in the moonlight. An in-tact body you could say, just a playground for the insecurities that plague many young things. But now, my carefully crafted illusion, my expert proficiency, crack-hiding, weakness-wrapping, is not so hidden. My exterior ‘normality’ has been encroached, my interior shambles scrambled. My bones in the mirror have not lied. I no longer just feel it, I can see that I am sick. Continue reading
We all have those things that make us tick, the things that crack open that sense of wholesome contentedness, those things that stimulate and inspire us.
With this year being very different to my last five (aka not being at uni anymore) I’ve been dedicating a bit of time to working out what things I actually enjoy doing, the things that inspire me, and the things that help define my sense of self. Although I’ve always had a rough idea about these things, I’ve never written them out before, and doing it has been a nice exercise. Below are the 5 realisations I’ve come up with so far. These are the things I want to do more of, things I know I’ll do wherever I am in the world, things that might seem pretty basic, but hell, they seem to float my boat. Perhaps they’ll float yours too. Continue reading