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How could I have known?

By Lauren Belcher
Weekly Blog
Word Count: 554 words

I never thought an assignment could change my life.

Oh, but it has.

My literary journal assignment has forced me to talk to religious figures on a regular basis. I am not a religious person. If I'm being honest, I actually don't believe in any of it. But, the assignment's purpose is to make us very uncomfortable and to bring us out of our comfort zone.

My assignment is to find out what it's like to be Jewish in a predominately Christian community like St. Augustine. Sounds easy enough, right?

I started my search by punching "rabbi 32084" into Google. Bam! Rabbi one, two and three. "This assignment is going to be easy," I thought.

I called all three Rabbis and got a contact list together, then I found a few local Jewish residents and was quite content with myself.

For someone who had to change topics twice, getting these contacts came pretty easily for me.

Rabbi number one, Mr. Samuel Cywiak was first on my list. His synagogue is right in downtown Lincolnville so I went there to meet up with him. Within seconds of meeting Rabbi Cywiak, I realized that my topic was NOT an easy one. More like the exact opposite.

Cywiak is 90 years old. When I first met him, I looked into his eyes and saw the kindest eyes I've ever seen. But, they had a deep pain in them that I did not yet, and still can't, understand. He is an orthodox Jew and a Holocaust survivor. We sat and talked for over an hour about his life and God.

I left that day feeling like a different person. It was the hardest interview I've ever done for so many reasons. I was in a funk for several days.

I don't understand faith. Especially blind faith. To just put your heart and soul into a belief that seems so logically impossible has always bewildered me. How could this man, who has seen the worst in a human being still go home and pray to a God? Or wait for a Messiah?

I understood it far more after I talked to Jerry Kass. Kass is a Jewish resident of St. Augustine. He moved here in 1930 and has lived across the street from the college, which was then still a hotel, ever since.

Just when I thought this could be a semi-normal conversation he hit me with it, just like the Rabbi. He's 95-years-old. His wife, of 67 years, just passed away not six months ago. That was when I realized that I was talking to a heartbroken man who felt he had not much more to live for. But he still had that faith. Even though he has lost everything and now sits alone on his porch day in and day out, he still believes. He's just waiting for the Messiah patiently, or for his God to take him home.

I still don't understand it, and I still don't believe in it myself, but I sure do have a new-found respect for religious people. You will never hear me try to talk someone out of their religion like I would before. If that is what people need to get on in this terrible life, then more power to them. Even if it is a higher one than mine.

SPJ winners

Congratulations to Haley Walker and Philip Mansfield for winning awards at the SPJ conference.

You can find their literary journal stories here:
Haley Walker
Philip Mansfield

Great job guys!
Dr. Sarkio said the pressure is on our COM class now! thanks a lot guys haha

"I'm alright in bed, but I'm better with a pen"

This was written by my friend Jessica Windisch. I wanted to share it on my blog :) Enjoy!

The Nameless, Ending?

After he left, we were only two. Something was off balance; something was wrong. We went out; we tried to carry on like we used to, but we couldn't. Something was missing. She woke up at 6:30 every morning now and soaked in the bathtub until 8, she wouldn't eat, she wouldn't sleep. I could hear the water swishing against the sides of the tub and I could hear her crying as she moved about...she wasn't splashing, she was squirming, writhing in pain. She soaked in her agony for an hour and a half every morning, so she could hide behind an almost painless smile through the day. Fat lot of good that did her...

It didn't take long for me to get really tired of this tradition she had started. She was reminding me of Blanche DuBois and that's depressing; she and I, we needed out.

"Hey!" I yelled through the door, "open up, this is ridiculous!"
"I'm not done yet," her voice sounded almost broken.
"I'm comin' in, dude. You've got to stop this..." I said as I searched for, and quickly found, something to pick the lock with.
"Stop what? Don't come in here, I'm naked!"
"Like I give a fuck!" I walked in and there she was, curled up in a ball in the bathtub. "We gotta get out..."
"No, YOU gotta get out! I'm takin' a bath!"
"You're soaking. You're sulking. You're fuckin' pruning! You gotta get out of that tub and we gotta get out of here! We're breaking, this place is gonna break us. We gotta go."
"Where could we go?"
"Anywhere! Hell, everywhere! We gotta leave! Now! Come on!" I said, dragging her out of the tub. I grabbed her towel and wrapped it around her, "we're gettin' out of here. You and I! You hear? Come on and dry yourself off, we gotta go!"
"Wait..." she said; she was shivering, huddled up, gripping the towel around her shoulders. "We can't just up and leave."
"Why the hell not?"
"We gotta have money! We gotta have plans! We can't just leave, we don't even know where we're goin'!"
"That's the beauty of it! We don't need to know, we can just go. It's so easy to go when you don't look back! Just leave it all behind! Let's, you and me, just leave it all behind."
"...ok. One more night though, ok? I wanna stay here one more night...just to prepare, you know? I gotta say goodbye to the place."
"Alright...alright, one more night. We can spend the night saying goodbye to this, but we're gonna go first thing in the morning, right?"
"Right...first thing."

That was that. We spent the night in, nobody wanted to come over or to hang out. We didn't tell anybody we were leaving. That's how you do it. You gotta go and not tell anybody and never look back. That's the only way to do it. We spent the night sober, just taking it all in, I guess. I packed up and went to bed, ready to be gone once the sun came up. I got no warning before I found her in the morning. She didn't leave a note or a mess. She had cleaned up her entire room, as a matter of fact. Put away all of her clothes, all neat and perfect, made her bed, shit! She even did the dishes and cleaned the living room! The entire apartment was fuckin' spotless! And she was in the bathtub, face up and all her color, drained out. The expression on her face, in her eyes, it was empty...cold and empty. Next to the body, I found an empty bottle of Percocet and a half-empty handle of vodka. She didn't tell anybody she was leaving. That's how you do it; that's the only way to do it. Fuck, what do I do now?

I don't remember calling anybody, but there were sirens, Paramedics. I remember someone pronouncing her dead, but I don't remember the name or the face. I don't even remember if it was a man or a woman, but I remember them wheeling her out in a bag on a stretcher. I remember the look on her face. I remember those empty eyes.

I'm packing up to leave this place and never come back, I'm stoned as hell and my world is shifting. These halls hold so many memories and they're echoing off the chipped paint and the holes in the walls; I'm all alone, but we're all here. I see the faces and the bodies and the shadows walking through the rooms and somebody's making out on the porch. I hear the voices and the laughter, the screams and the crying, the insults, the apologies, the fights. Those were the days when we lived because we knew we were dying and thought we were invincible. We told stories we'd forget to have told so we could tell them again in five minutes. We listened to music we thought would never get old and we swore by the fashions that would never go out of style. We skipped our classes and went to the beach and drank. Those were the days of reckless abandon, the days of night-time parties and sneaking out of windows, when we thanked the heavens that the walls don't talk and prayed to the Gods our parents didn't notice we were drunk. I'm packing my bags now and remembering. I'm off to embark on the next journey. The same stories won't be told and the walls won't reverberate the same sounds. The ghosts of these halls will not call to me again. I'm high as a kite and I'll fly off with the wind if it'll take me all the places I talked about going when my walls were all that could keep me up without falling.

On the differences between men and women . . .

This is wonderful...it's from raysweb.net 

by Dave Berry

Let's say a guy named Roger is attracted to a woman named Elaine. He asks her out to a movie; she accepts; they have a pretty good time. A few nights later he asks her out to dinner, and again they enjoy themselves.

They continue to see each other regularly, and after a while neither one of them is seeing anybody else.
And then, one evening when they're driving home, a thought occurs to Elaine, and, without really thinking, she says it aloud: ''Do you realize that, as of tonight, we've been seeing each other for exactly six months?''

And then there is silence in the car. To Elaine, it seems like a very loud silence. She thinks to herself: Geez, I wonder if it bothers him that I said that. Maybe he's been feeling confined by our relationship; maybe he thinks I'm trying to push him into some kind of obligation that he doesn't want, or isn't sure of.

And Roger is thinking: Gosh. Six months.

And Elaine is thinking: But, hey, I'm not so sure I want this kind of relationship, either. Sometimes I wish I had a little more space, so I'd have time to think about whether I really want us to keep going the way we are, moving steadily toward . . . I mean, where are we going? Are we just going to keep seeing each other at this level of intimacy? Are we heading toward marriage? Toward children? Toward a lifetime together? Am I ready for that level of commitment? Do I really even know this person?
 And Roger is thinking: . . . so that means it was . . . let's see . . . February when we started going out, which was right after I had the car at the dealer's, which means . . . lemme check the odometer . . . Whoa! I am way overdue for an oil change here.

And Elaine is thinking: He's upset. I can see it on his face. Maybe I'm reading this completely wrong. Maybe he wants more from our relationship, more intimacy, more commitment; maybe he has sensed -- even before I sensed it -- that I was feeling some reservations. Yes, I bet that's it. That's why he's so reluctant to say anything about his own feelings. He's afraid of being rejected.

And Roger is thinking: And I'm gonna have them look at the transmission again. I don't care what those morons say, it's still not shifting right. And they better not try to blame it on the cold weather this time. What cold weather? It's 87 degrees out, and this thing is shifting like a goddamn garbage truck, and I paid those incompetent thieves $600.

And Elaine is thinking: He's angry. And I don't blame him. I'd be angry, too. God, I feel so guilty, putting him through this, but I can't help the way I feel. I'm just not sure.

And Roger is thinking: They'll probably say it's only a 90-day warranty. That's exactly what they're gonna say, the scumballs.

And Elaine is thinking: Maybe I'm just too idealistic, waiting for a knight to come riding up on his white horse, when I'm sitting right next to a perfectly good person, a person I enjoy being with, a person I truly do care about, a person who seems to truly care about me. A person who is in pain because of my self-centered, schoolgirl romantic fantasy.

And Roger is thinking: Warranty? They want a warranty? I'll give them a goddamn warranty. I'll take their warranty and stick it right up their ..... .

''Roger,'' Elaine says aloud.
''What?'' says Roger, startled.
''Please don't torture yourself like this,'' she says, her eyes beginning to brim with tears. ''Maybe I should never have . . Oh God, I feel so . .... .''
(She breaks down, sobbing.)
''What?'' says Roger.
''I'm such a fool,'' Elaine sobs. ''I mean, I know there's no knight. I really know that. It's silly. There's no knight, and there's no horse.''
''There's no horse?'' says Roger.
''You think I'm a fool, don't you?'' Elaine says.
''No!'' says Roger, glad to finally know the correct answer.
''It's just that . . . It's that I . . . I need some time,'' Elaine says.

(There is a 15-second pause while Roger, thinking as fast as he can, tries to come up with a safe response. Finally he comes up with one that he thinks might work.)
''Yes,'' he says.
(Elaine, deeply moved, touches his hand.)
''Oh, Roger, do you really feel that way?'' she says.
''What way?'' says Roger.
''That way about time,'' says Elaine.
''Oh,'' says Roger. ''Yes.''

(Elaine turns to face him and gazes deeply into his eyes, causing him to become very nervous about what she might say next, especially if it involves a horse. At last she speaks.)
''Thank you, Roger,'' she says.
''Thank you,'' says Roger.

Then he takes her home, and she lies on her bed, a conflicted, tortured soul, and weeps until dawn, whereas when Roger gets back to his place, he opens a bag of Doritos, turns on the TV, and immediately becomes deeply involved in a rerun of a tennis match between two Czechoslovakians he never heard of. A tiny voice in the far recesses of his mind tells him that something major was going on back there in the car, but he is pretty sure there is no way he would ever understand what, and so he figures it's better if he doesn't think about it.
(This is also Roger's policy regarding world hunger.)


The next day Elaine will call her closest friend, or perhaps two of them, and they will talk about this situation for six straight hours. In painstaking detail, they will analyze everything she said and everything he said, going over it time and time again, exploring every word, expression, and gesture for nuances of meaning, considering every possible ramification. They will continue to discuss this subject, off and on, for weeks, maybe months, never reaching any definite conclusions, but never getting bored with it, either.

Meanwhile, Roger, while playing racquetball one day with a mutual friend of his and Elaine's, will pause just before serving, frown, and say 'Norm, did Elaine ever own a horse?'

formspring.me

Ask me anything http://formspring.me/4LaurenB

Bad Vegetarian

By Lauren Belcher
Project #4
Audience: People
Why? A funny look at the life of a non-typical vegetarian.
Word Count: 725 words

I am a terrible vegetarian, the type who doesn’t eat enough variety to stay healthy. My first month of vegetarianism was downright dangerous.

Imagine me, six months ago. I was a carnivore. I ate meat 2-3 times a day, and loved it. One day, I ran across an e-mail about chick culling. I was intrigued and decided to check it out.

Farms cannot profit off of male chicks. They can’t lay eggs and they can’t be used for slaughter. The farmers’ thought: why waste the feed? Chick culling is when the shell egg producers pick out the male chicks and throw them into high-speed grinders.

I swore off meat September 18, 2009.

Only problem is, I’m a picky eater. I won’t eat the following: tomatoes, onions, peppers, mushrooms…pretty much anything that goes on top of a salad or sandwich. Like I usually do, I made a quick decision without thinking it through. It was three days before my 21st birthday and now I’m making a life changing decision. Wonderful.



My first vegetarian meal was at my work, a Tex-Mex stand. I walked up feeling confident and looked at the menu. Well, my usual was the nachos, but I wouldn’t really like it without the meat. Same with the quesadilla. “I guess I’ll have what the other vegetarians order, the bean burrito,” I said.

I’m not a huge fan of beans but I figured I’d better start liking them. So we go down the line as my co-worker is making my burrito. Rice? Sure. Beans? Yes please, the black ones. What vegetables would you like? Uhh… I was staring at containers full of tomatoes, onions, Pico de Gallo, guacamole, corn salsa and several other things that looked equally non-appealing. I told him, just put what vegetarians usually get.

He laughed. My stomach turned as he put all of the above in my burrito. When he was done my burrito looked lumpy and it oozed salsa. I forced a smile and took it from him. “I can do this,” I told myself.

The first bite was the worst. I bit down on a tomato and felt the fleshy pulp slither down my throat, and I was no longer optimistic about my new decision. I ripped open the burrito and forced myself to continue but a few more bites in I quit. At that point the burrito looked sad for me. It was an oozing mess, a total representation of what I would be eating for the rest of my life. Defeated, I left.

The next week consisted of me eating what I normally ate, without meat. My three main food groups were: French fries, pasta and triple layer nachos from Taco Bell. Now that I had plenty of options for food, I decided, “Hey! Why not go vegan?”

So I got rid of my jug of milk, all my cheese and the eggs in my refrigerator just as quickly as I did meat a few weeks earlier. I could no longer have French fries because they are fried in the same oil as meat. I couldn’t really eat pasta because I couldn’t have my usual cream sauces or butter. But Taco Bell was still fine, as long as there was no cheese or sour cream in my food.

Another week of this and I became sick. Really sick. I was dizzy all the time and was seriously lacking the nutrients that my body needed. I had vertigo and was told that I needed to give up the lifestyle.

I couldn’t. After the things I’ve seen, I could not go back to eating meat. So I made a change. I obviously couldn’t be vegan but I could still be a vegetarian. I just needed to eat what I liked. I love squash, zucchini and broccoli. Green beans are my favorite. Maybe I could do this after all.

Today, I’m healthy. I eat a wide variety of foods and introduced soy products as my replacement for meat. There are more selections for vegans and vegetarians than there was five years ago. I’ve learned to adopt new grocery stores and eateries that supported my lifestyle. I replaced milk with soymilk but I still eat the occasional meal with egg and cheese. One day I would like to go full vegan again, but for now, I’m happy to be healthy.

Image from Google Image

WWMSAT?

By Lauren Belcher
Weekly Blog
Word Count: 287

I'm 21 years old and I still care what my parents think about my decisions.

Not to the point where I won't do something just because they disapprove of it (i.e. the tattoo I just got redone,) but it's still always in the back of my mind. Kind of like WWMSAT, what would mom say about this?

I always feel my subconscious kick in right before I do something 'bad.' I'm not a bad kid and never really was one. I blame a lot of my crazy decisions on the fact that I missed out on a lot of fun. My fun started at 18, so sometimes I make decisions at 20 or 21 that a normal kid would have made at 15. I'm still learning a lot of lessons that should have been learned by now.

But other times, my adult side kicks into gear and I make the decisions that make my parents proud. Something small, like cooking my own meal for dinner or remembering to pay bills, makes all the juvenile stuff less appealing. I get to be a grown up now.

I'm graduating from college in a year come April. That's probably the most scary reality of all. The thought of going into the real world and starting my career makes me want to go back home and be a 15 year old again. How did this happen so fast? Is the fun going to really end in a year? Or is it just beginning?

This is probably why I hold so many of my freshmen friends close to my heart. It's nice to hang out and feel young again. Even if afterward I have to go home and work on my resume.

Image from Google Images

On being a loner

This was something a friend wrote that mimics my feelings on a lot of things. Enjoy the read :)

Wednesday, March 3, 2010 at 1:22am

I have come to the conclusion that I am destined for a life of loneliness.

Now, before everyone overloads this note with comments attacking my usual melodrama and pinning a mental Post-it note with the word, “Emo” to my shirt, allow me to elaborate:

I am not saying that I am a victim, nor is this note an attack on relationships in general. To be sure, I have seen loving relationships. Take my roommate, for example. Mark and Demika are in love. I know this, because I practically live with BOTH of them. Mark is the personification of the Steve Miller Band’s song, “Joker,” unconsciously thumbing his nose at any conception of plans outside of college, organization, and the uptight world with its schedules and palm pilots and suits and ties. And Demika is the perfect mate. The two adorably apathetic lovers have a relationship so blissfully low-impact that it makes every single attempt that I’ve made to “take things easy” look like the pathetic attempts of a socially awkward fool.

Well, that’s because I try to be the fool, in the literary sense at least. In medieval times, the fool was the member of the court who was allowed to lampoon the king. Every word out of his mouth oozed with the saliva of satire, but here’s the catch: he was funny. The jester could critique everything about the kingdom, from the official decrees to the king’s unseemly back hair, so long as he did so as a joke. But I am not a jokester. I am a firebrand. A hotheaded revolutionary. I am Jacques in Shakespeare’s “As You Like It”—an idealist driven to cynicism at the moral depravity of polite society. And like Jacques, I long to be a Touchstone—a wise man that disguises his damnations of the status-quo with limerick and laughter. But I can’t.

Believe me, folks, I’ve tried. I’ve tried to “take everything in stride,” or “with a grain of salt.” I’ve tried to “laugh it off,” and “let it roll off my shoulders” and every other annoying cliché that you can possibly think of. But I can’t. I physically, emotionally, mentally cannot be apathetic or jovial about the state of our species. I can’t because unlike the majority of you, I DON’T think that the way we live now is inevitable. I don’t think that war, poverty, racism, sexism, homophobia, class divisions, and all the other pretty little injustices that we take as “just a part of life” are ingrained within our DNA. And I CERTAINLY don’t think that the people on the top of this sinking ship we call a political system are there because they are somehow smarter or better leaders than the rest of us. So because I don’t buy the bullshit, I get very disillusioned when I see otherwise good and caring people don a military uniform, wear a badge, or become a businessman and perpetuate the same river of feces that we have to wade through every single hour of every single day of our lives.

So where am I going with this? How the hell is this related to relationships? Well, if you haven’t stopped reading by now and proceeded to mentally masturbate to the latest idiotic YouTube video, then perhaps you’ll allow me to explain further. Because every droplet of blood that courses through my veins is dedicated to the collapse of “business-as-usual,” that doesn’t bode well for a lover, does it? I want to be a muckraker. I want to sneak through the deepest corridors of money and power and politics, and expose the people who think they are untouchable—that no one notices or cares about the fact that they lie, cheat, steal, and slowly kill us with impunity. So yes, I plan to piss a lot of people off. That’s my job. But even if I DON’T get killed or maimed doing it, I can’t possibly settle down.

Let’s put our beers and water bongs down and be serious for a second, kiddies: You might not think it right now, but we are all socialized to believe in monogamous, committed relationships. From the first day we start thinking of other people in a romantic way to the time we’re put in the ground, we are told that we are supposed to get married and have children. Now that idea has been challenged numerous times throughout history, but the notion that each of us is supposed to be with ONE person for the majority of our adult lives is still grinded into our psyches. As much as you all like the concept of friends-with-benefits and three-ways and make-out parties right now, odds are most of you will abandon your sexually libertine-like lifestyles in favor of the “spouse with 2-3 kids and a white picket fence” model.

The sad thing is, with all my vicious vindictiveness towards mainstream America, this social model is one of the few things that makes me occasionally regret being on the fringe of society. I’m not saying I want to EVER get married, but I don’t mind the idea of having someone that loves you and cares for you so much that they want to spend the rest of their life with you. As horrid as that may sound to some of you, I think that’s a beautiful concept. Imagine: respecting and adoring someone so much that you are willing to put up with every single solitary annoying thing that they do until you are so old that both of you are shitting your pants everyday so you can’t complain about them anyway. Real, uncensored, unfiltered, unsitcom-like love. I don’t care what any of you say; that’s fucking amazing.

But perhaps the most aggravating part of a truly committed, loving relationship is that I will never experience it. Well, okay, perhaps I could. Maybe. But to do so I would either have to compromise the work that I am so passionate about doing, or else put the woman through emotional turmoil from my constant absences from home, fluctuating work schedule, and my constant obsession to “comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable.” And as much of a jackass as some of you might think I am, I can NEVER put anyone through such unbearable hell.

Some of you might be asking, “So what? At least you can have fun right now!” Come on, folks. You should know me better than that. Yes, I can have a few fleeting moments of bliss, but in the end comes the usual emptiness I feel at the realization that it won’t last.

So, before Facebook, the Internet, and the world, I declare myself a loner, destined to never have the satisfaction of coming home to a warm bed at night or staring into the eyes of someone who cherishes being with me despite my obvious neurosis. But, c’est le vie. I shall not shed a tear at my future of singleness and singularity, for rather than be swallowed by my depression, I choose now to use this realization to reaffirm my commitment to my cause.

May my only love be the lady Liberty, for I shall never be unfaithful to her.

Defiantly yours,

Cal “Chaos” Colgan

P.S. Yes, I know that I rambled a lot, but I really don’t give a shit. It was fun to write. :-)

One regret...

By Lauren Belcher
Project #3
Audience: People
Why?: To relate to someone who is going through, or has gone through, something like this.
Word Count: 669 words

People still ask me to this day, “How did you not know?”

Well, denial is a peculiar feeling. I would know; I experienced it from age 11 to 17 years old. For six long years, I ignored what was happening to my body and tried to continue my life as normal as possible.

If, as a child, you had an ever-growing stomach, would this raise a question? Or would you just wear looser clothing and ignore it? I did the latter.

The first time I realized I was depressed was in eighth grade. I was in middle school and I got a morbid writing assignment. The script said “Congratulations! You died today. Now, write your own eulogy.”

While everyone else wrote comical essays about freak accidents that lead to their deaths, I took this assignment to the next level. I committed suicide, figuratively of course.

I don’t have many memories from my childhood, but this essay is still clear as day in my memory. It was the first sign that something was wrong and I needed help.

The details in my essay scared my teachers. I didn’t have many friends but even my peers were strongly affected by my essay. To me, it was just a piece of writing. But, in reality, it was a look into my denial, my first attempt to reach out.

Flash forward several years and you’ll see a high school junior applying for colleges. At this point, I’ve been living with my depression for quite sometime. Everyday was a living hell for me, especially when I was at school. I couldn’t help but wonder why I would subject myself to another four years of this.

By now, my stomach gave me the appearance of a pregnant teen. I was 17 years old, so the notion wasn’t the strangest idea in the world. I looked ready to pop, like a walking reminder of what all high school kids never want to see. And they tortured me for it. But I wasn’t pregnant; I didn’t know what I was. I just assumed I was overweight.

If I had known a freak medical disorder had caused all the torment in my life, I would have gone to the doctor sooner. If I have one regret in life it’s that I didn’t go sooner.

But, eventually, I snapped out of my denial and got a nice taste of reality. I went to the doctor and found out whatever was in my stomach was far from normal. It took many months, and many doctors, to figure out what it was but eventually I got my answer.

I had an ovarian cyst. It was benign and had managed to grow for six years. By the time I got the CT scan, my cyst was 30 by 16 by 36 centimeters. Even though those numbers are impossible to comprehend, something about them made it so very real for me.

Many thoughts hit me at once. It wasn’t my fault. There was nothing I did to deserve what I went through. All the dieting and exercising made no difference. I laughed, I cried, the denial finally broke.

Then the questions came rolling in. How could I be so stupid? Who else in their right mind would have let something like this go for six years?

It has been almost four years since the surgery that changed my life. The two hour surgery that drained eight liters of fluid from my abdomen; the surgery that helped me lose 22 pounds in one day.

Although it never physically harmed me, the cyst took six crucial years from me. I can’t say that I was cured on the surgery table but I did get a second chance.

After my surgery, I was diagnosed with polycystic ovary syndrome. Broken down, it basically means I’m prone to many ovarian cysts. I am now living with PCOS, a disorder that thousands of women live with everyday.

I now have something someone can actually relate to. I’m a survivor.

 After/Before photo: June 2006