Writing from Isolation (May)


Eric Prouzet on Unsplash

(Photo credit: Eric Prouzet on Unsplash)

Today, in a SO:write women writing group, a photo prompt of a mug display took me in unexpected directions. It made me think about the meaning of fragility, identity, wholeness…

Extract below

Wishbone Day

Some of the mugs are crooked while others stand straight and chiselled.

Some are sun-drenched orange, others ink blue.

They are all proudly on display, yet teeter on the edge. It would only take a slight knock for all of them to come crashing down to their ruin. So fragile and easy to break. It could happen at any moment, unexpectedly. A simple act of carelessness.

I know exactly what this feels like. I have spent my whole life breaking and putting myself back together.

Yesterday was Wishbone Day.

It was meant to be a day of celebration. Of coming together and raising awareness about this damn disease (you’re not meant to call it a disease anymore, it’s a syndrome, but I still find myself slipping up).

Everyone wears yellow. I forgot to. I always forget. Maybe it isn’t forgetfulness: perhaps I just don’t want to acknowledge it.

Brittle bones. That’s what they call it. I’m so tired of talking about it. I could pronounce Osteogenesis Imperfecta before I could spell my own name. It is ingrained into me. One simple mistake, one foot out of place, one wet floor and that’s it.

Broken bones. Pain. Plaster. Repeat.

Why would I want to celebrate this, when I see fragility all around me?

Even in mugs.

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