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Sometimes I just don’t know what to write. Sometimes my brain feels empty of all thought, and creativity is well out of reach, but writers are supposed to write. So here I sit, unsure of what will come out next.

When I think about my blog and the reason I started writing it, I find myself both proud of what I have created and at a loss that there is anything left to say. This makes me both pleased and a little sad. I love my blog and I love to write. I have found it profoundly helpful to write about my thoughts and experiences living with this disease, but at some point, it all just gets a little repetitive.

Yet writers are supposed to write, so even though I don’t really think of myself as a write…I write. I write in hopes that new ideas will present themselves. I write in hopes that new thoughts will fill my head. I write because I’ve come to rely on writing as a form of medicine. It feeds my soul to write. It empties my already all too often empty head. I write because it makes my fears melt away and my sorrows shrink.

I write even when the only thing I have to write about is how I have nothing to write about. I write because writing has become like breathing for me. I need it, like I need air because the thing about my blog, is that it connects me to others who are like me and to those who want to know me better. It connects me to a part of myself that would otherwise remain hidden away. It puts me out there and makes me vulnerable because it forces me to be real. Even when it’s repetitive and even when it’s boring, I write. I will continue to write because that is what writers do.

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