Author: L.J. LaBree

This past week and a half has been a new version of Hell for me.

Why? Because I caught Covid-19.

It wasn’t one of the worst cases, but it certainly did knock me flat on my tuchus for a week and a half.

At first, I thought it was just my seasonal allergies acting up: sneezing here and there, having to clear my throat, and the occasional dull pain-thrumming behind my eyes.

But then my boss tested positive.

I went straight to one of the nearby hospitals to have myself tested, but I already knew I had caught it.

Sure enough, a day later my test results came back. I too was positive. The following week was brutal. It felt as though someone threw up one of those large switches you see in the old mad scientist movies. I found myself in bed the very next day, unable to get up, and doing nothing more than trying to sleep for more than 40 minute intervals. I was reduced to nothing more than an oversized slug.

I couldn’t eat anything more than soups and broths. Liquids became one of my saving graces. The other was the absurdly large amount of meds I took to get rid of headaches and mucus. It didn’t do anything to stave off the constant pain I felt in my legs. I can safely say I know what it feels like to have thousands of sharp fingernails bite down into my flesh, never relenting, always constant.

My roommates either laughed at my situation, or avoided me like the plague.

I thought I was well enough to go back to work on Monday (plus, it was my 10 days up from quarantine – I was going stir-crazy and was willing to do almost anything to get out of the house,) but I couldn’t stop coughing my damned lungs up, so I ended up going back to the house early. I guess there are some things that can’t be rushed.

I’m taking things slow for now. Drinking my fluids, taking medication to try and soothe my poor Sahara-scraped throat. I go to work when I can, and stay at the house when I’m just too tired to move a muscle.

I’ve been finding myself thinking about what the world would look like if Covid had never happened. I’d most likely be working in Portland, living either at home still or in my own apartment. I’d have my cats with me, snuggling together on a ledge facing the east, drinking and lounging in the morning sun. Would I be happier there? Would I still have wanted to move to the Boston area? Would I have to need roommates so my student loans can get paid?

Still, I would say I’m okay with how my life has turned out. I’m not crazy about catching Covid, but I would daresay this virus was the dangerous equivalent of an ice-cold bucket of water. I was dangerously flirting with the feelings of resignation. As in, I was unconsciously falling into the idea that I was never going to catch my dreams, and they would only stay as daydream thoughts for the rest of my life. As long as I paid off my loans, then I should be happy and content with what life gave me. Just because I am okay with where my life has brought me, doesn’t mean I’m going to be content with it staying this way.

That’s not why we have this life. Why have dreams if we’re not meant to chase after them? Why have wonder and curiosity if we’re not meant to follow them and ask ‘why?’ or ‘how come this happens?’

Life is meant to be beautiful and full of color. Catching Covid reminded me that our lives can easily be taken from us. I’m not sure who said it, but there’s a phrase that I absolutely love to think about: “The past has already happened. The future has yet to come. Today is a gift–that’s why it’s called the present.”

I don’t know about you, but I’m not going to spend the rest of my life being miserable behind a 9-5 desk job. I’m going to do what I love. I’m going to be what I know in the very base of my essence: A Writer. A Novelist. An Author. However you want to put it, that’s what I’m going to do.

Feel free to watch me rise.

Hey everyone! I hope you have been having a good spring so far!

Though, with the world having more turns and twists than a YA novel, you never know what other people are living with at the moment.

I was reminded of that lesson when I visited my parents for Easter.

Now, we’re not really all that religious, but we do consider ourselves pretty spiritual. We believe for sure that there is a higher power, whether that creature be God, the Goddess, the collective energies of the Universe, or some combination of those previously mentioned, plus something mystical we aren’t even aware of as a race yet. We also believe in angels, demons and fiends, and the floating calamity that is a poltergeist. (For the record, I was full aware of what a poltergeist was before the Harry Potter craze hit.)

My parents bought me the traditional chocolate bunny, along with several more bags of cavity-inducing sugar, but they also bought me something that truly refilled some of that hope I’ve lost this past year.

They bought me a pot of roses.

No, not a vase of freshly cut roses people would often give to one another on Valentines’ Day, but a cute sunshine-colored pot with yellow and pink roses still with their roots. The bush itself obviously needed a little TLC, but they knew I’d have all the little buds blooming in no time.

Once we brought the little bush home, I set to work in cleaning her up. I found a lot of dead leaves and dying branches. It felt like by the time I would be done cleaning it all up, I wouldn’t have any green plant left. That’s when I found this strange bundle of dried leaves covered in a light grey fuzz. I thought I had found some sort of fungus pod responsible for killing the rose bush. Nope, I was so wrong.

I found a nest.

Inside this little nest was a singular wriggling worm, probably trying to figure out why its home was moving. This was the source of my bush’s progressing demise. Of course I threw away the creature and its house and continued cleaning out my poor bush. Thankfully, the little worm didn’t get to the entire plant.

But it made me realize something. If anything, 2020 has planted inside each and every one of us that tiny little grey wriggling worm. They’ve been eating away at us day in and day out, leaving behind doubt, hate, suspicions, and so many other negative feelings in their wake. It’s probably why everyone is so exhausted these days. We’re all so busy fighting the symptoms, we haven’t even had the time nor the energy to go looking for the gross little worm burrowed deep inside of us.

I don’t know about you, but I plan on getting rid of that creature. It has way overstayed its welcome. It isn’t going to be overnight though. Nothing like this ever is. I don’t know how long it will take, but I’ll be sure to keep you all in the loop.

But until then, try to take deep breaths and tell yourself that you’re awesome, you’re wonderful, and you’re important!

Dating sucks.

There are no Buts, Ifs, or Ors to that statement. The whole aspect, execution, and upkeep of dating just simply sucks.

Dating has always been harder for me than most of my peers. It’s been that way through high school, college, and now trudging forward into my 30’s.

It isn’t because I’m not “throwing myself out there”. Though I will admit I didn’t try during my high school years. I was more focused on trying to convince others that I was smart, when I should have been convincing myself. But that’s a different story for a different time.

Mostly, it’s because I didn’t fit into what boys were taught as “drop-dead gorgeous”: tall, thin, blonde hair, all while acting demure and complacent to the boy’s every whim.

I know what I look like. I see my body and face in the mirror every day. I’m what my father calls “pleasantly plump”, thick curly light brown hair that oftentimes has a mind of its own, and a loud, boisterous personality paired with a hard-earned book intelligence to tie it all together.

Now, before anyone yells at me and tells me I’m body-shaming all the women who are skinny, blonde, and tall, let me clarify: No, I’m not. I know a lot of women who are taller than me, skinnier than me, have soft demure voices, and are such wonderful soft souls that I can’t help but to gush over them.

I’m upset with the fact that boys are taught from such a young age that this type of woman is the only kind of beautiful out there. I can honestly tell you my heart hurts for all the women who don’t fit into this insanely tiny demography: pleasantly plump black women with thick curly black hair, teeny-tiny Japanese, Chinese, Korean, and so many other Asian women with “boyish” figures (which is a term I absolutely hate, btw), chubby English, French, Canadian, and so many predominately white-nation young women who just can’t seem to lose a single pound of fat for the life of them. Native American women with gorgeous thick long braids and swoon-worthy tan skin.

I hurt for them all, as well as myself. So many of us don’t fit into that Society-ordained “Beautiful” category, so we spend so many years hating our bodies and our looks, just to finally turn around and understand how to love ourselves for who we are. Problem is, not only should we have been loving who we are, and who we will become, right from the get-go, but we should also be better educating the males we grow up with.

We should be teaching them that beauty comes in all shapes and sizes, just as a daisy dappled with dewdrops on a bright sunny morning, and the soft twinkling lights hanging from a thick Balsam Fir on a cold winter’s night, are both beautiful and awe-inspiring in their own rights.

All of us women should have the right to be told we are beautiful, wonderful, and smart. We all have the right to be told we are loved and wanted.

So, while I was in the shower, crying my little heart out at yet another rejection because, and I quote, “You’re not ‘Daisy Ridley’ pretty, so why are you even trying?”, I found myself chanting something that made the tears slowly dry up:

I am loved.

I am wanted.

I am worth it.

The words are right. There are so many people I know who love me for who I am, smart-mouth sass and all, who still want me in their lives, and see me as someone worth spending their time with. As long as I focus on those people, the jerks who don’t see my unique beauty don’t matter.

Yes, at the end of the day I’m still me. But I’m trying to see me in a better light. I’m pleasantly plump, not fat. I’m petite, not short. I speak my mind when I see a wrong, not bossy and annoying. I am intelligent, not an “insufferable know-it-all”. I am worth the time to get to know, whether it end up as friendship, or something more. I am worth it.

I hope and pray these words I recited to myself reach whoever needs to hear them, and all I ask is you help me spread them even farther to those who still do.