What Matters Most?

For what doth it profit a man, if he gain the whole world, and suffer the loss of his own soul? Or what exchange shall a man give for his soul?

Mark 16:26

Lately, it seems we’ve all become obsessed with money and success. It’s almost as if we’re all in this race to see who can acquire the most things, yet these very things that we pursue are things that are perishable; things that we cannot carry beyond the grave. What then does it really profit a man to lose his soul and gain the world?

Happy Sabbath, friends. Just wanted to share this thought with you today.

Love, D.

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Pseudo Seizures – My Story

A year had gone by already, and while I should have been thrilled to be returning to school, I was anything but. My discontentment came not only from having to face the fact that I’d be spending two more years in a high school setting, but that I’d be going to an all girls’ school.

The first day of school surprised me the most, not because I found it to be the complete disaster I thought it would be, but because it was much quiet, uneventful and drama free -much to my liking. I’d especially enjoyed it because for once, I’d taken the time to step outside my comfort zone and talk to some strangers. Whether I succeeded at making friends didn’t really matter at the time. The next day, however, things took a turn for the worst.

In devotion, the woman speaking had made an error. Most of the girls echoed her mockingly, and the judgmental attitude displayed by the girls really took the meaningfulness out of having devotion. If I had only been a little braver, I’d have rolled my eyes, but I knew within myself that I may just as well have been guilty of the same crime at some point in my life.

As the day went on, I found myself feeling more and more like an outcast, which was nothing new to me. It had always been much easier for me to talk to males as they’d usually approach me first. Females, however, seemed a bit more cliquey. But whether or not anyone spoke to me, I usually still felt like the odd one out. At this school, things were no different. Nonetheless, I had promised myself that I would not return to my old anxiety-ridden self. I would try to be normal.

Finally, the third day, something strange decided to happen, and as troubling as it had been, I was happy to have been able to escape the all the awkwardness  and discomfort of having to be in such an unfamiliar setting. It was my first pseudo seizure, but upon my first visit to the hospital, I was said to have been experienced an actual seizure – several, to be more precise.

Eventually, I was prescribed a drug called epilim chrono. Despite this, my condition only worsened. Although I had an appointment to see a neurologist the following week, my worried father decided to take me to see a neurosurgeon. Being in such a haste, and having temporarily lost my voice, I had little control over how I looked. My hair was unkempt, and I even attempted to comb it, but all my family would say is, “Don’t worry about it.” Even when I’d motioned to them that they should comb it, they simply focused on trying to get me to the hospital.

After hours of waiting, I finally got to see this doctor, who seemed tired from a long day of work. I was his last patient, so it was no surprise that when my parents tried to explain what happened, he became moody and dismissive. When he actually witnessed it himself, all he could say was, “This is not a seizure.” But as soon as my prednisone use was mentioned, everything started to go downhill.

He started to blame the pill for almost everything – my unkempt hair (which I had been so concerned about earlier), my supposed depression, and my supposed apathy. In his own opinion, I could very well speak. I was just simply doing this on purpose. The way he spoke, it was as if I wasn’t even in the room – as if I wasn’t even me.

That’s when I knew he thought I was faking it. In the hallway, he’d explained to my father that the prednisone was making me depressed. I remember him pointing outnmy demeanour as some sort of proof, when in fact, I was only saddened by his behaviour. In the end, he gave me a diagnoses of pseudo seizures (PNES). The day after, his words kept replaying in my mind, so much so that I felt I was going insane. I felt humiliated.

Truthfully, I despised taking prednisone. Much of what he said about the drug was accurate. It did cause me become depressed at times. But what it didn’t do was make me into the uncaring, unfeeling zombie he insinuated it did. I heard everything he said, and I was affected by all of it. To add, he even suggested that I didn’t even have arthritis, which was the reason I was taking the thing in the first place. By the time it was over, I hardly felt like I was human being anymore, let alone that I even mattered.

Now that a year has passed, I can only say that the past is the past. I understand now that there are many people who won’t understand me, some of whom will even think I am faking this. But the beauty of it all is learning to understand yourself and to somewhat acknowledge and accept the ignorance of others, particularly when it only seems it cannot be changed. My only regret is that if I could have spared myself the heartache, I would not have seen a neurosurgeon, but rather, someone more equipped to deal with the problem.

Yes, neurosurgeons should know a lot about the brain. But like most other doctors, what they really can’t seem to fully grasp yet is how powerful the mind is and how it affects the body. It really pains to know that if you are to approach these people who seem to know everything about health, your mental health will be completely disregarded. You really do leave feeling it’s all just in your head, yet there is nothing you can really do about it.

The good thing is, the power is in your hands. You can choose to deny your illness and remain baffled by your inability to function normally, or you can accept it and start working towards change. Even if you can’t convince anyone to believe you, you know within yourself what is true and what you feel.

Sometimes, it’s okay not to care. It’s okay not to be understood. All you need to do is try your best and continue working towards recovery.

@dainellewrites

Open – A Poem

I’ve opened the doors to my heart

And surely, it’s been no mistake

Left in full, not in part

For all the liars and crooks to take

Yet with the pain comes pleasure

So in this moment I delight

As if I’d found some treasure

In my bleeding heart’s plight

This newfound love; this thirst for life

How long will this things last?

All those years of strife

Seem but a thing of the past

For no pain that I feel can compare

To the love that I’ve found

A freedom in being; an absence of care

My feet above the ground

That Time I Went On A Diet

As far as I can remember, I have always been on the plump side. Consequently, throughout my entire life, many people, whether their advice were solicited or unsolicited, have opted to share their opinions about my weight.


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I still remember the day that I’d plopped myself onto my deceased grandmother’s couch without giving it much thought, only to be questioned by my uncle, who had been teasing me just about all summer about my weight. “Are you trying to break the couch?” he asked jokingly. I certainly didn’t find it the least bit funny.

Despite a few bad experiences, I couldn’t exactly tell where I stood in the eyes of others. Some people told me I was fine. Others told me that I could lose a little weight. Regardless of how conflicting everyone’s views were, I only did what I knew how to do best. I sucked up any negative comment that came my way, and I believed it.

Me, age 17

The more conscious I felt about my weight, the more complicated my relationship with food became. One minute I had eaten too little, the next I had eaten too much. My weird eating habits, I believe, had begun only after I decided to become a pescetarian. Soon after making that decision, I’d begun counting calories and frequently weighing myself. To keep my sanity, I eventually had to throw out the scale. But while my poor eating habits only lasted a short time, the thoughts which fueled them in the first place lingered long after.

At around age 16 or 17, I realized that I couldn’t continue living this way. Caring about what everyone else thought was simply too tiring, and my own negativity was getting to me. It was only by stepping back for a while and looking at things objectively that I’d begun to realize that it didn’t really matter what anyone else thought of me, or even what I thought for that matter. Regardless of what anyone said or did, the fact remained: I was no better or worse than anyone else.


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Now at 19, a lot has changed, not just in my life, but in society as a whole. I’m sure by now many woman have heard the saying, “Real women have curves.” It’s a saying that is meant to empower girls like me, but also, in my view, promotes the idea that a woman’s body shape somehow determines her “realness.” Considering the fact that woman come in all different shapes and sizes, it can be quite problematic to think that only woman who look a certain way can be considered “real.”

Personally, I think it’s high time we just stop trying to live up to a standard and start focusing more on being healthy (and this goes for both men and women). Whether that means being a little on the thicker side or on the thinner side, it shouldn’t really matter.

What do you think? Feel free to leave a comment down below.

Love, D.

 

 

Solitary Night

In this world, everything seems so black and white

Those pretty colours, they only seem to come around at night

And even in my lowest lows, the beauty of the sight takes me high

To a place where no one knows and I never even have to try

 

‘Cause if solitude is good for one thing

It reminds me that I’m still alive

‘Cause I can dance or I can sing

And no one’s there to criticize

 

Yeah, I might be all alone

But I’ll keep dancing on my own

Until the day that I find

The one to mend the pieces

Of my broken mind

How I’m Spending My Holidays

Tis the season to be jolly!

I’m sure we’ve all heard this, and I’m sure many of us could attest to it. 

After completing my first semester at university, I can honestly say that I have never been happier for the holidays. Getting work done on time was one thing. Trying to actually have a social life was a whole other thing.

You see, my favourite question that I’ve been asked thus far since starting university is, “Have you made any friends yet?” I almost always seem to respond with a yes, which technically isn’t a lie. Yes, I’ve made friends, but not nearly as much as my interrogator would expect. In fact, the amount of time I spend alone far outweighs the amount of time I spend around these “friends” I say I’ve made.

Now that the holidays are here, I can only sigh a sigh of relief. At least now I won’t have to obsess about people noticing my “abnormality,” or how terrible I am at making friends. But now that I have all the time in the world to be alone, I realize just how much I miss all the distraction that university life provided. If it did anything, it provided an escape from having to face the fact that beyond the times I manage to paint a pretty smile on my face, internally, I’m really struggling. 

Since the start of the holidays, I have succeeded in one thing. I have rekindled my faith, and once again, I am reminded of just how much time I spend worrying about things that don’t really matter and how much time I could be spending of the things that really do. As much as I love all the distractions that come with university life, I admit that sometimes, it can be so easy to get lost in them. 

This Christmas has been quite uneventful to say the least; at least, for people like me who are not exactly the partying kind. The long standing tradition of telling tales of Jesus’ birth through various TV programmes still stands, however. Unfortunately, it seems, not many seem to care as much.

Outside of some family time, I’ve mostly spent my holidays on my own, which is not surprising. It’s what happens every time Christmas comes around. The good thing about this, however, is that I am able to take a step back and really assess myself. What’s my assessment? Lately it seems I’ve been getting lost in the world, and it seems I constantly have to remind myself to “be in the world, but not of it.”

The whole concept of partying has never been too appealing to me, but sometimes, I desperately want to escape the silence. It is silence that brings out the worst in me; that unearths the very things I am too afraid to face, yet, because of my own disconnection with the people and the world around me, much of my life, I’ve been forced to live with it.

These days, it seems I only keep on asking myself, why can’t you just be like everyone else? But after so many years of wondering, I’m beginning to think that maybe I just wasn’t meant to be, and maybe there’s nothing wrong with that. The wonderful thing about it all is that there are others who feel just like me. 

Not until I started university would I realize just how much my faith would make me stand out. While I go to a Christian university, at times it feels that my idea of Christianity differs from everyone elses. Even while being in such an environment where almost everyone’s beliefs should seem to align with my own, there are many times I still feel lonely.

But the wonderful thing about it all is that, in being alone, I have found a great companion and a faith that is so complicated, yet so beautiful. There is comfort in knowing that though I may feel lost and lonely at times, I am never truly alone, and that is what I have to remind myself this holiday.

In fact, if there was anything I could change about this holiday, it would not be my loneliness. It would be the fact that I haven’t helped a single person out there who’s feeling lonely, hungry, ill or depressed; people who can’t seem to find the cheer this Christmas. I only ask of you, be kind to your neighbours this holiday season, because kindness is one of the greatest gifts one can receive. 

Feel free to let me know how your holidays are going.

Love, D.

Living With PTSD – A Confession

A few weeks ago, I met a young man who clearly he had taken some interest in me. I, however, being somewhat scatterbrained, didn’t think or take much notice of this. Weeks later, I find myself getting more attached to this man than I ever imagined I would. The best part? The feeling’s mutual. What more could a girl ask for? Finally I’d graduated from fleeting high school romances to something real; at least, so I thought.

Things were going pretty well between us I’d say, but I knew it would only be a matter of time before all my fears and doubts would enter the picture. One day I’ll tell myself to stop thinking so much; just let go for once. The next day I’ll be crawling back inside my shell, wondering where all my bravery had gone. I try my best to keep on going anyway, but when it feels as if you’ve got ten different people living in my head, all fighting to be in control, falling in love – or doing anything, really – seems next to impossible.

After all, who can stand it? I can barely stand my own brain, so why should anyone else? Thoughts like these run through my mind until I feel as if I’ve been completely sucked dry, and all my progress seems to sink down the drain. Then once again, I regress and push away the ones I love most.

Surely it gets tiring, doing the same old thing over and over again. I believe that’s what they call insanity. Well, I’m angry. I’ve had enough, and I want out, but all of this seems to be just a shout in the void because a mind can’t be fixed in the same way a physical wound can. When a mind is damaged, it takes years to be rebuilt, and many times I’ve tired out my own patience. Thanks to PTSD, this is what my life has become, and it is a thing I’d wish upon no one.

But thanks to PTSD, I’ve made up my mind. I want to be open and honest, no longer living in the fear of falling in love and getting hurt. I want to fall deeply in love with life again, and embrace all the pain that comes along with it. I want to show the world who I really am and what I am capable of. I want to love with every inch of my soul; not holding anything back and I refuse to let PTSD stop me.

For a long time, this illness, as well as the mountains of stress I seem to be carrying these days, has taken me away from my writing, which I love so dearly. But thanks to illness, I have come to realize that the only way for me to heal is to let go and love. Thanks to PTSD, I was able to meet this wonderful guy and feel things that I’ve never felt before, and even if it doesn’t last, I can at least say that thanks to PTSD, I’ve tried.

Though I may never truly understand why I have post-traumatic disorder, I can safely say that my life has changed in unimaginable ways, and even in all the madness, through much prayer, I am able to find peace. If anything, this illness has been a wake up call for me; a chance to ask, “When will you ever truly start living?” The answer? Not when I overcome my illness, but now.

To whoever is reading this, whoever this resonates with, I want you to know that your illness doesn’t define you; that you’ve got a world of beauty within you, just waiting to be explored. Don’t let the darkness of this world steal your light.

Love,

D.

To My Followers

Lately I’ve been a little disappointed with myself. These days it seem I can hardly find the time to write or blog. I keep telling myself that today is the day I’ll get something done, yet nothing ever comes out of it.

Really, I long to get back to writing. There are times when I miss it so much, I seem to catch a case of the blues. I guess it only goes to show that being creative is not just a hobby – it’s a necessity.

My blog has been inactive for quite some time now, and it’s been such a shame. To my followers, I thank you for choosing this blog and I hope that soon, I will be able to get back to blogging consistently.
Love,

D.