Think about that for a moment.

Once upon a time, not so very long ago, a little girl watched her father crying by her bedroom window. She was 11 years old, in her pyjamas, and sitting up in her bunk bed. Her father had never cried before and before he said a word, she knew.

Her mother was dead.
She wasn’t coming back and everything would change.

That little girl was me and I was right. In the two years that followed my reality got turned on its head. My father died 18 months later after my mum and I went to live with family in another country.

In the space of two years I lost a happy childhood and began living in a world of grey. Broken and unable to find common ground with those around me I dived into books, they kept me safe and they understood but with each year that passed I forgot more about the laughing independent don’t-mess-with-me mother I loved and the quiet but generous father.

Every time I thought of my father I thought about how I’d failed him. How I hadn’t managed to make it work and how me being the carer* had broken our relationship – so I stopped thinking about him and with that I stopped remembering all the good things.

It wasn’t until I was 21 that I managed to rebuild myself – but by that stage I’d lost so many memories.

Think about that for a moment.

*My father was registered 100% disabled. After my mum died I did the cooking, washing, shopping, etc. Looking back at it now, at that age I was in no way able to cope with all of this but while logic says it wasn’t my fault I still wish I could go back and fix that.

Marieke:
I remember walking past a hospital room one day. The room appeared to be sealed off and its white walls and sterile smell didn’t fit in the otherwise colourful children’s hospital. The people inside wore gowns and gloves to keep the risk of infection to a bare minimum.

It looked like the scene from a thriller – Outbreak, or something.

Instead, what I saw were the effects of a bone marrow transplant. I remember staring at the room while the whole process flashed around in my head. A transplant meant harvesting marrow through a needle in your hip. It meant severe chemotherapy to destroy all the remaining marrow in your body. It meant not knowing what would happen next.

I don’t remember if the patient was a boy or a girl, I just remember standing there, aged 12, thinking it might be me.

Up to that point, I’d spent a lot of time in several hospitals; after that moment, I’d spent even more time in medical care because my immune system was doing everything it shouldn’t and nothing it should. Standing outside that room is one of many memories that would forever stay with me. The others? Going to a sea aquarium with other patients. Being allowed to wander around the off-limits section of a military airport (hey, I’m a geek!). Ice cream on an afternoon away from the hospital. Singing along on the top of my voice to Meat Loaf songs at the hospital school’s dance. The colours and laughter of a family room.

Because the only thing that outweighs not knowing if tomorrow is still there is living today to the fullest, together with family and friends. The charity Donna’s Dream House gives children and teens with life-threatening diseases the chance to make those memories and live those dreams. At least, it did. Until right before holidays, part of the main building was torched beyond repair.
They were forced to cancel Christmas for the families set to stay there.

Think about that for a moment.

The reason Write Dreams is so important is because the faster we get Donna’s Dream House back on its feet the faster we can help another family build important memories. Memories that will help those left behind carry on, and memories that will bring a smile to those kids that know they won’t have much time left.

Please visit Write Dreams, we have so many wonderful donations and you are helping in ways that can’t be expressed in words.

The book I’m most grateful for…

is Märchenmond by Wolfgang & Heike Hohlbein.

Thinking about it I was a bit surprised because I was convinced it would be Sunshine by Robin McKinley – which is and will probably remain my favourite book. It’s the one that cheers me up no matter what and has been read too many times to count. It’s like a medicine, which given I’m full of a cold right now is apt but when I actually thought about it it’s not the one that I’m the most grateful for.

I was twelve when I read Märchenmond all the way through, I had started it once before but it was too long and I gave up after the first chapter. The hero is a boy and I didn’t much like boys… My parents had bought it for me after someone at school had raved about it, though now I seem to remember that was The NeverEnding Story* – they are somewhat similar I suppose.

Bizarrely I was in England when I began reading it, it was Christmas and I was sitting in a rocking chair while the remainder of my family was in church and my father as upstairs sleeping. By that stage he probably wasn’t well enough to have travelled to the UK but I’d refused to spend the first Christmas after mum had died alone with him and my older sister.
(Disclosure: Our family is very large, broken and very confusing to go into details would make this entry about three times as long and make me sound like I’m having a pity party. Yes that Christmas was awful and I hated Christmas for years after but I like it now. )

With nothing to do and bored I began following Kim on his adventure. I don’t remember how long it took me to finish, I’m sure it was a few days as I wasn’t a fast reader back then. That Christmas was the last one I would spend with my father, he died a few months later and I moved from Germany to England.

All of this sounds awful and why am I blogging about it?
Well because Märchenmond was the first time a book helped me. After that I found comfort in many more stories but it was Märchenmond that made my twelve year-old self forgot where she was and for that I’m very grateful.

 *that’s Die unendliche Geschichte to me, if you’re interested.

FYI – the book has been translated!

#YASaves

I couldn’t not post.

The blogosphere and Twitter are overflowing with responses and comments to The Wall Street Journal article on YA. You can read the it here WSJ – I had to take a break halfway through because I was getting so annoyed by the condescending and narrow minded attitude of the piece.

The reaction of the YA community has been awesome, I’m so proud of all of us.

#YASaves is my personal truth. A huge part of why I’m still here and functioning is because of books. They were my escape when I wouldn’t face getting out of bed. My therapy because they taught me that I wasn’t alone, that there is hope and that I could make it.

They were are my best friends, because no matter what I need they can give me that. Laughter, tears, escapism, understanding…

There are so many things in that article that I could pick apart but I’m going to select the suggestions that reading about behaviours such as cutting would encourage someone to do this. It reminds me of the argument that watching violent films or playing video games makes people pick up guns and go on shooting sprees.

Dear WSJ,

NO IT DOES NOT!!!

I have more scars that I care to count covering my arms… most of them are years old, faded white lines that you hardly notice until you look closer.

I am proud of these, they are a reminder of my journey – what I had to get through to be the person I am today.

SCARS by Cheryl Rainfield was highlighted in regards to the above argument. This book has been on my wishlist for months, and surprisingly the cover does not make me want to cut myself. Surely it should?!* NO! Triggers/Reasons for cutting are so much more complex.

What WSJ has succeeded in doing is making me buy it now, today, right this moment. I’m giving up my chocolate fund for the month – because books like SCARS are so important, too important not to be read.

To suggest that reading it will make me cut again or make someone who hasn’t cut before suddenly pick up a razor blade is an insult to everyone’s intelligence.
That is not the purpose of the story.

You can read Chery Rainfield’s response here

*That suggestion annoyed me so much!