Multiple Sclerosis is a bitch 

       At eight years old I was scribbling nonsense on lined-paper and calling it cursive. At nine years old, I was correcting my friends scribbled nonsense with a red pen. I have notebooks filled with nothing but never-ending scribbled curls and loops. Within those pen strokes were my deepest thoughts and secrets – not really, I think I was probably scribbling so quick that I it didn’t matter what I was pretending to write. All that mattered was that I was “writing.” There was something so freeing about scribbling those loops quicker than my pen could keep up with the paper.

      At twelve years old, I began writing a novel. I got to page 10 in my notebook. 3 chapters. Eliza actually was cheating on her stay-at-home husband with her assistant Ivan. (Yes twelve-year old Anna, get rid of those gender roles!) It was only when I began typing my novel on our huge desktop computer that I realized how short the story was: 1 page, single spaced. But, damn a lot did happen. I continued to write short (really short) stories throughout middle school. I even attempted writing a song once. It was only lyrics so I am not sure how anyone could learn the musical accompaniment, but these were minor details.

     At sixteen, I watched my mom struggle to write Christmas cards. I took the pen from her hand and wrote for her. I had been watching her signature deteriorate on receipts and screens for some time now. Every time we were at the Target checkout, I would watch her grab the pen to the touch screen and make note of how well she could sign. Nowadays, her identity is alarmingly easy to steal. Like, you could literally make a half circle on the screen and no one would question it. It was easier to laugh about it than let it eat you alive.

     My passion for writing has always existed in the deep pits of my soul. The love I had for writing my name in preschool is the same love I have now when I finish an essay for a college class.  However, my purpose for doing so has evolved with age. When I was 8 years old, I wrote to create dreamscapes, to make games for my friends, and to pretend that my words held meaning. I was writing simply to feel like I was doing something with purpose. On their own, the scribbled lines on the page meant nothing. But to me, they were evidence of my intentions.

     At twelve years-old, my life changed forever. My short stories about Eliza and her assistant quickly became stories about a mother’s diagnosis and her daughter’s fear of the future. I have notebooks filled with characters working on magical cures, a mother who miraculously heals overnight, and one where it was all a dream to begin with. I wrote to cope with the crippling anxiety of not knowing what came next.

      When I was in high school, my mom progressively lost her ability to write. The woman who had taught me how to hold a pencil and write could no longer do so. Instead of dwelling on this, I have channeled it through the work that I do. I love to write for many reasons, but I keep doing so because I am aware of how quickly that ability can be taken away from you. She inspires me to live my best life and to keep writing. For even when she is straining to hold a pen, she signs her scribbled signature.