Greeting good readers,
I started Brazen's Rumanations years ago in order to inform, teach and entertain. I created this blog at a time in my life that was horribly frightening and painful. I was fighting to survive after surgeons were forced to remove my entire large intestine. I was dying. Literally. I had a major blood infection that threatened to kill me. I wasn't sure I would survive; and some days I hurt so bad I wanted to die. But I fought through it and survived, much to shock and surprise of my doctors, family and friends. This blog was to serve as my last hooray. It was a vehicle to tell the world what I knew, what I surmised, and how I felt.
And then my overwhelming depression took over. My blog was abandoned. Brazen's Rumanations stood as an edifice to what and who I thought I was. I didn't want to think of myself as terribly ill. But I was. After all, before my intestines decided to secede from my body, I was cheerful and social and whole. Of course I lied to myself daily, repeating the same mantra over and over again as if to convince myself that I was a fighter. A warrior. A badass. A fighter. A warrior. A badass. Rinse. Repeat.
I knew I was just kidding myself. I was bed-ridden. Family members and close friends milled in and out, gathering in the corners of my sick room, muttering about how sad it was. How vivacious I had been. How horrible it would be when I finally, mercifully, passed on. Where would I be buried? What insane punk rock song would I like played? (It would have been, Dying to Know by Pennywise, btw.) They shook their lowered heads, wringing their hands, blotting away tears. I felt as though I was on display. No more or less than an exhibit at Ripley's Believe It or Not. I wanted to pitch an unholy fit. I wanted to throw all those beautifully vased fresh flowers at their feet. I was witnessing my own candlelight vigil. I was frequently hospitalized because this organ failed or that infection set in. And they came to my hospital room in droves, too.
Do not think I am unappreciative. There are people out there dying, with nary a kind heart paying on iota of attention to them. Oh, I appreciated them. I felt horrible for them all. For a while I felt like I was the source of their pity, their sadness. My very existence hurt them to the core. Had it not been for me, they would be lighter of heart and cruising through life unabated. I hated asking anyone for anything. I hated being a burden. I was simply existing. Not living.
For the first two years, people kindly invited me to this event or that happening, knowing the invitation was but a kindness; I could never actually attend. After so many invites, they just stopped. I wasn't being written off, I was being left alone in my misery. I put on this brave face, I laughed and listened to music and watched television. No more, no less. But the isolation was maddening. I was alone. Somehow, being alone was better than having people worry about me. Better than watching their sad faces smiling back at me through tearing eyes.
Then something miraculous happened. I forced myself to get up. A doctor suggested I get on Facebook. It was a way for me to connect to society. To stretch my mental legs, so to speak. And with that, Brazen Brunhilda was off and running. At first, I couldn't sit at the computer for very long periods of time. But I kept at it. I allowed ME to been seen, scars and attitude and all.
Now I have 4,500 friends. They are diverse and multi-national. They bring me joy.
And now I am back on Blogger. I have found my voice once again.
Please share in my new found release back into society. And thank you for reading.
Sincerely,
Brazen Brunhilda
I started Brazen's Rumanations years ago in order to inform, teach and entertain. I created this blog at a time in my life that was horribly frightening and painful. I was fighting to survive after surgeons were forced to remove my entire large intestine. I was dying. Literally. I had a major blood infection that threatened to kill me. I wasn't sure I would survive; and some days I hurt so bad I wanted to die. But I fought through it and survived, much to shock and surprise of my doctors, family and friends. This blog was to serve as my last hooray. It was a vehicle to tell the world what I knew, what I surmised, and how I felt.
And then my overwhelming depression took over. My blog was abandoned. Brazen's Rumanations stood as an edifice to what and who I thought I was. I didn't want to think of myself as terribly ill. But I was. After all, before my intestines decided to secede from my body, I was cheerful and social and whole. Of course I lied to myself daily, repeating the same mantra over and over again as if to convince myself that I was a fighter. A warrior. A badass. A fighter. A warrior. A badass. Rinse. Repeat.
I knew I was just kidding myself. I was bed-ridden. Family members and close friends milled in and out, gathering in the corners of my sick room, muttering about how sad it was. How vivacious I had been. How horrible it would be when I finally, mercifully, passed on. Where would I be buried? What insane punk rock song would I like played? (It would have been, Dying to Know by Pennywise, btw.) They shook their lowered heads, wringing their hands, blotting away tears. I felt as though I was on display. No more or less than an exhibit at Ripley's Believe It or Not. I wanted to pitch an unholy fit. I wanted to throw all those beautifully vased fresh flowers at their feet. I was witnessing my own candlelight vigil. I was frequently hospitalized because this organ failed or that infection set in. And they came to my hospital room in droves, too.
Do not think I am unappreciative. There are people out there dying, with nary a kind heart paying on iota of attention to them. Oh, I appreciated them. I felt horrible for them all. For a while I felt like I was the source of their pity, their sadness. My very existence hurt them to the core. Had it not been for me, they would be lighter of heart and cruising through life unabated. I hated asking anyone for anything. I hated being a burden. I was simply existing. Not living.
For the first two years, people kindly invited me to this event or that happening, knowing the invitation was but a kindness; I could never actually attend. After so many invites, they just stopped. I wasn't being written off, I was being left alone in my misery. I put on this brave face, I laughed and listened to music and watched television. No more, no less. But the isolation was maddening. I was alone. Somehow, being alone was better than having people worry about me. Better than watching their sad faces smiling back at me through tearing eyes.
Then something miraculous happened. I forced myself to get up. A doctor suggested I get on Facebook. It was a way for me to connect to society. To stretch my mental legs, so to speak. And with that, Brazen Brunhilda was off and running. At first, I couldn't sit at the computer for very long periods of time. But I kept at it. I allowed ME to been seen, scars and attitude and all.
Now I have 4,500 friends. They are diverse and multi-national. They bring me joy.
And now I am back on Blogger. I have found my voice once again.
Please share in my new found release back into society. And thank you for reading.
Sincerely,
Brazen Brunhilda
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