OK real quick while my hair is drying.

HI. I'm Brit.

Here's a welcome post, if you're the kind of person that needs to be welcomed to a blog. And you seem like you might be. Listen, I've got hawk eyes for trend spotting. And I have observed a little something circulating about the internet world to the tune of fragmented sentences. I'm a sheep if ever I saw one, so let's go.

CLIFFs NOTES VERSION

Thirty-something photographer & blogger who recently broke up with cubicles and fluorescent lighting for good. No kids. Cigarette smokers are idiots. And if there's one thing I'm good for - it's letting you know when you're being an idiot. Health nazi by force, now by choice. Uncoordinated doesn't describe it. Love Jesus, and America too. Hate fish. And yes, that includes shrimp. Ugh. Appreciate bluntness. Used to have a blog called Blunt Delivery, where despite popular perception I did not deliver blunts, rather bluntness. Former freelance writer, relationship columnist & reality TV commentator. Now I write only for myself. Hate diamonds, including, and especially Neil. Except I'm pretty sure this isn't nearly fragmentish enough. #englishmajorproblems // Can't take a freaking selfie. Love cooking. Girl from the North Country is everything. Book collector who hates to read. Despise math.  And no, I have never, ever needed it in real life except when counting how many things I hate about Neil Diamond. Love Italy. Hate to fly. Studied abroad in London. Trying to be more "glass half full." Except not really trying. Former owner of a retail store. Spent my entire 20s an emotional wreck who feared settling down and broke out into cold sweats upon hearing the word commitment. {Wreck could also be substituted for: crazy person, unstable basket case, confused mess, serial breakup artist.} And by 20s I mean, right up until that 30th candle was lit, I was off the rocker. Hands perpetually smell like onions. Haven't been bored since the summer of '88.

What's this blog about? 

All of the things I've learned along the path to recovering my health through alternative medicine - ways to eat, feel, and live better. Navigating the middle life. My passion for photography and unquenchable interest in humanity. The hope I find though my faith.  Note: this isn't a niche blog. Choosing a niche is like Sophie's Choice for a tortured, right brained, creative basket case. It is my Everest. And I left my climbing shoes back at Gander Mountain, where I never bought them. 


And now For a more detailed version than you ever thought possible 

I'm gonna take you from teens to twenties, from madness to happiness, from sickness and depression and along my current path to healing from a slew of health issues. Despite the fact that I once worked as an editor, I know not the meaning of edit. So it's not necessarily that I like to talk about myself. Necessarily. It's more of an inability to not be detailed. 

You know those people who say, "I wouldn't change a thing about who my past because it made me who I am... blah blah." Yea. I'm not one of those. They are idiots. And here's the thing, I'd change a whole lotta crap. And if you were man enough to admit it, you would to. There's nothing wrong with that - it's just a fact. I'm not sure who started the contest about who should be the most satisfied with their past. We grow. We evolve. We learn. And we change, hopefully. And with hindsight we can see things we couldn't before. We should want to be better. That's the beauty and the ugliness of life - you only get one chance at your twenties. And thirties. And the record just keeps on spinning. So if there's one positive to draw (now don't get freaked out because I've reached for the silver paint here) it would be: motivation. That even if you carry around one regret - don't let it turn into six hundred. If there was anything that you could have done, should have done, or ways that you treated someone or allowed yourself to be treated - remember the weight of that regret. And let it motivate you to do right, love well, and live up to everything you're capable of.

There. Slap that on one of those black motivational posters with a photoshopped mountain in the background. See if I care.

Alright, this was supposed to be more about me and the blog and less of a commencement speech. But before we get started on what is sure to be a huge waste of your time - let's take a moment of silence for MySpace. Because that's where my blogging career started.

fist-bump.jpg

If you don't know what MySpace is, I feel a bit of congratulations are in order. You have yet to discover your first gray hair or the horror that is having to pat on an eye cream nightly. If you do remember, just be glad you didn't stumble across my "blog" back then. What an inexplicable disaster of thought vomit. 


What is it about writing?

 As a teen, I had no guts. If I wanted to express my feelings, I would most likely have written a long letter, left it on your doorstep and then ran off into the night. Actually, I still might. An eternal non-confrontationalist, I write the things I cannot bring myself to say. Writing helps me make sense of life - sentiments of sadness and joy come much more easily on paper.  And after all these years, my cure for almost anything is still a journal, a pen and a sappy playlist. Add a rainy day into the mix and all those problems just evaporate into that thick, foggy air.

In my early twenties, I just found myself lost. But weren't we all. And guts? Nope. Still missing. And they remained missing right up until the second I decided to hop on a plane to Europe for school. As a girl who was deathly afraid of flying, who could barely drive through her own "downtown" without getting pulled over, who had never lived anywhere but her parent's home, whose mom raised her in a bubble - that was a gutsy move. That trip was good for me, but the course my life took in the aftermath and as a result of that trip was anything but desirable. In hindsight, I would still have gone, but that's about the only thing I wouldn't change.


After I returned from Europe...

After gleaming some inspiration from Camden Market in London - I decided to open a store in my local mall. And no, I had zero business experience OR retail experience  - I was an English major for goodness sakes. But, hey, carpe diem. It was successful and I did enjoy certain aspects of it, but ultimately hated the hours and the retail world as a whole. I discovered what I loved most about it was just the freedom and creativity. So, I closed that puppy after three years, walking away with more knowledge that I ever could have learned from a book or professor. During this time,  I started my first real blog. Sorry Myspace, but you absolutely do not count as a real blog. You might not even be a real website considering the amount of fake profiles circulating around on there. I might have contributed to that roundabout 2005. Anyway, I used the blog as therapy for all of the madness that would overtake my life throughout the coming decade. I quietly observed all of my friends grow up, get big girl jobs and move into two story houses with just enough room for their growing families. I, however, found myself on quite a nonconventional journey with nothing checked off. No wedding photo on my mantle, no kids, no steady 9-5  - yet that didn't seem to bother me as much it did everyone else. 

I was caught in a tangled web of discontentment, a never ending search for more. More passion. More fulfillment. More life. I had no clue what I wanted - except to not settle. I blogged about all these things with only one rule: that it was completely honest. No hiding. No pretending. No collage of constantly happy pictures. And I got a lot of flack for that blog. A lot of pissed off exes. Internet libel threats. Old girlfriends who tried to ruin my life, yet somehow thought I should protect them on my piece of internet space. Thanks for the email, but naw. I no longer wanted  words to be a safety device, but the thing that would set me free from years spent trying to be perfect. Trying to live up to everyone's expectations. I named the blog Blunt Delivery. And again, no, it never crossed my mind that people would think it was a drug delivery service. 

Amid the pissed of stars of my blogging show, readers seemed to find some sort of odd comfort in my late night musings. I was taken aback by the comments and emails of people who said I made them feel less alone. Well, most of them just said they felt better knowing there was someone out there more messed up than they were, but whatever. I started developing real friendships with people all over the world because of my worried, scattered internet thoughts. It became addicting. These people were like-minded. They got me in a way that was refreshing and relieving. At the time, I paid the bills as a self employed freelance writer doing columns about relationships and doling out love advice. Sadly, you cannot see the irony in that since you know not of my murky past sprinkled with tumultuous relationships and broken engagements - and I know we're not quite bros yet, but trust me on that.

The happy ending... sort of.

I've since moved on from that life. And as I left that part of myself behind, I left my blog as well. Those years were tough. And they formed me and taught me and stretched me in every way. I'm surprised I even survived half of my experiences - the ones I chose not to discuss. 

It's not that I didn't miss blogging - I did. But life, took an interesting turn. Literally every free moment of the past couple years has been spent dedicated to medical research, doctor appointments, and radically changing my life to resolve a whole slew of health issues. I know, eew. And I'm finally to the point where I'm ready to talk about it. I'm ready to help people on a broader level who probably feel like they are the only one on the planet with an invisible illness or set of symptoms that baffle the crap out of the medical community.

I feel like this is the start of a great friendship. I've already started designing our BFF necklaces. Hope that isn't creepy.

Click here for my health journey.