I believe we all want to be truly seen and understood. And, I believe everyone lives with pain and scars of some kind; some easily visible, some seemingly invisible. I write personal nonfiction to demonstrate the wide-ranging experiences of disability and to offer connection and support to others living with chronic illness and chronic pain.
After receiving my invisible disability diagnosis more than a decade ago, I searched for answers and solace in books. At the time, I didn’t find much. I write for my readers and for myself, to write the pieces I needed to read but didn’t exist. I write as a way of processing and making sense of this unexpected life path I am on. And, I write as a means of extending a hand and a gentle hug to other members of the chronic illness community.
I invite you to sign up for my weekly blog posts. Each post focuses on one of two B’s in my life — Books and Bodies. If you’re like me, you’re a reader who can sometimes feel overwhelmed by all the books you’re curious about and all the books you have bought on visits to indie bookstores and have yet to read. That’s where I can help. It gives me great pleasure to highlight a book and its author by sharing some of my favorite passages with my blog readers. With my book-related posts, my intent is to offer some guidance and help you select your next read, or maybe I convince you to add a particular title to your ever-growing want-to-read list. (At least, my list is ever-growing. Yours too?)
And while books can serve as a great escape tool, that’s just temporary. So the other topic I regular write about is my life with an invisible disability. Because the reality is you can’t live with a chronic illness without it impacting every aspect of your life and your body. Through lived experiences, I discovered that having an invisible disability is like having an octopus in my life, tentacles stretching out and touching one area of my life after another. A chronic illness is truly all-encompassing.
Since officially retiring from my teaching career due to my disability, I spend my days writing. I am a regular contributor to MomsLA.com, a website that aims to help parents find all the best things to do in Los Angeles. I also write personal nonfiction and regularly submit my pieces to online literary journals, websites, and anthologies. I am currently researching a publishing path for my memoir-in-essays.
Teaching elementary school for twelve years taught me something I continue to rely on — each day is a fresh start. Just because one day was challenging (in terms of chatty students and broken copy machines, for example) doesn’t mean the next day will be. In fact, more often than not, the next school day could be an entirely different experience (power outage and a fun math lesson using tortillas to illustrate the idea of equivalent fractions, for example).
That’s how it works with chronic illness. One hard day — with tightness that feels like a blood pressure cuff has been secured around my calf — doesn’t necessarily mean the next day will be the same. I also found that certain aspects of teaching didn’t automatically get easier the longer you work at your job. Because each school year is uniquely different as a result of the unique individuals sitting in your classroom. Likewise, I may have first become ill fifteen years ago, but that doesn’t mean my feelings of grief, disappointment and anger as they relate to my old life and what I can no longer do have all disappeared. They are still very much a part of my day-in, day-out life.
Do you remember any of your elementary school teachers? I remember them all, but especially my second grade teacher, Mrs. Jones. I remember coming to school one morning and telling Mrs. Jones a story. I don’t know if it was an original story or one I recounted from Sesame Street. But I do know Mrs. Jones later gave me a “book” — yellow construction paper for the front and back covers and filled inside with the “good paper” — the white paper with blue lines that we only used for final drafts. Mrs. Jones told me to write my stories in my book. I don’t know what happened to that book, but I do know that was the first time I realized I could be a person who wrote stories. I could be a writer. (I wrote about Mrs. Jones in a personal essay published by Sasee Magazine, and this is my 2nd grade school picture.)
As a kid, did you participate in the summer reading programs public libraries host each year? I did. I can remember my mom driving me to our local library each week so I could check out 10 books (the maximum allowed at the time). After buckling up in the back seat, I would reach into my canvas tote to pull out my first book. My mom looked in the rearview mirror and would ask me to wait until we got home. She knew we’d be returning to the library sooner rather than later.
I remember many years later, volunteering in my high school library during lunchtime and a few days a week after school. Naturally, I did it for my college applications, but even more than that, I did it because I love libraries. In fact, I spent several of my college years working in a public library. My years there gave me the opportunity to see firsthand how a library, and books in general, serve so many different functions for so many different people. That’s the power of books.
I’m an ocean-loving, tomato-disliking, never-learned-to-whistle Los Angeles native. In fact, I have spent my entire life living in the same zip code. (Three different addresses, though. I even wrote a personal essay, “Bound By Love and a Single ZIP Code” that was published in the Los Angeles Times.)
I have deep roots, and also an interest in exploring and discovering. I have gone parasailing (three times), hot air ballooning (twice), and zip lining (once – so far). I prefer sunflowers to roses, silver to gold (as you can see from the nine rings I wear on eight of my fingers), and I still stop and marvel at the sight of a butterfly, a hummingbird, or a rainbow.
Several years ago, I read something that really helped me. Instead of asking Why me? as in Why did I get sick? The question really should be Why not me? What makes me any more special than anyone else?
After all, everyone is dealing with something. Life can be hard and scary. At the same time, life can be magical and inspiring. I write about it all.
WendyKennar.com 