Dear Francesca,

I read somewhere, I forget where and by who, that writers live their lives twice. My spin on that is that writers live their lives once, and then recreate it.

That is one reason I enjoy writing these letters. The actual moments of my days and nights may not be to my liking, but when I write about them, I can reshape them. I can focus on things outside of illness. I can recreate my life into one more satisfying.

A new story purls from the words I write. I can snip away those parts I do not like, focus on the ones I do. My words become my bones when I recreate my story. As I focus on the sticks and curves of letters becoming words, the physical fades, at least momentarily. The words are in control, not the body.

Perhaps I can convince myself that the words are in control. Perhaps I am just deceiving myself.

On the one hand, I feel betrayed by my body. The endometriosis that has eaten into my body has its own logic of pain, one I do not understand. Yet as much as I am reminded of my physical body, I feel it slipping away. At 104 pounds, I am at the lowest I have weighed in years. My ribs create shadows, my face is more angular. While this frightens me on one level, it fascinates me on another.

Why is that? I want to be as healthy as I can. But yet there is some part of me that seems fascinated with deterioration. I think that part can be attributed to my depression, the part of myself that sneers at my good moods, makes me feel silly for feeling good.

Someday...wholeness.

Yours,
Hannah Iona