I make it a priority to tell one ugly story a month.

One Hideously, Ugly, Unflattering Story Every Thirty Days.

You can guarantee that as the 30th prances closer to the front of my calendar I am clearing my throat and looking for someone to sit beside me with a cup of tea between their hands, waiting to hear my Ugly Tale.

Throughout the years I have learned that it is not hard to find an Ugly Tale. Lord knows I have a bookshelf full of Ugly Tales, disorganised and restless, sitting on some handmade shelf within my soul. No, finding an Ugly Tale is not difficult but having the courage to tell one is another matter completely.

I don’t ever attempt to dictate or be right when I write but for the first time in ever I am going to come out and say something I believe with every fiber of my being: We don’t tell enough Ugly Stories. We don’t hold them up to the light nearly enough. We rarely find the time to stop and talk about Tragedy and Hardships unless we know a new nonfiction claiming to tell a sad story as if it were the only one has just hit the Best Sellers List.

But I don’t believe we carve out enough time to get Ugly with one another. To tell one another about the times we fell flat on our face or the very first time we realised our heart really did have seams that could rip. Rip Quite Easily. Perhaps we forgot to cover that base in kindergarten as we all held up our valiant pieces of plastic for the first time and checked out Heroic Stories from the Local Library. Someone should have told us then that it is o.k. to speak out loud the things that hurt us most or to acknowledge Broken Stories. That we can have Favourite Things and then Not So Favourite Things that we actually admit to ourselves and others.

Some part of life taught us at a very young age that we should hide away the ugliness, the not-so-pretty stories, as we vow to never grace those spots again with a flashlight or a word.

Fragile relationships. Bitter feelings. Hardships. Resentment. Leftover pieces. Remains of strength. Confusion. Doubt.

You just be strong, buttercup. Hold your head up and get over it. You go ahead and tuck that experience deep into some abandoned compartment of your heart . And we will never talk of it again.

That is how Ugly Stories go untold. Precious Ugly Stories that taught us everything we know about being human beings and yet we reject them because they make our throats dry and our palms sweat as we attempt to stutter out, “Once Upon a Time.”

Here is what I know:  That we, the crazy messes of skin that we are, have the marrow of storytellers within us.

Something in our DNA makes us cry out for stories. Again and Again and Again. And not just Pretty Stories but Ugly Stories as well. Those are the Gold that Jerk Tears from our Eyelids and Keep Us Pushing Onward. Relentless. Capable. Invincible.

And so I have become quite comfortable with sharing Ugly Stories as if they were animal crackers at  snack time.

Times where I felt pitiful. Or I fell flat on my face. Or I gave up, throwing my hands up and surrendering to a God that has kissed my skinned knees since childhood.

I find it is the only way to clear out cobwebs of the soul. To dump out the clutter from the leather satchel with the one thousand compartments that I refer to as my heart sometimes.

For there are whole parts of my life that I wish I could just sweep out into the open with a massive broom but I haven’t gotten that far yet. Right now I have a toothbrush and I am down on hands and knees scrubbing. Scrubbing Hard. Telling One Ugly Story Every Thirty Days.

Some might call it “moving forward,” others, “starting over.” I call it “carrying less this time around.” Learning to coat all that is Hard and Hard to Admit in my life with a thick stew of Love & Storytelling.

Forgiving myself for the messes I have made. Releasing the power from those Hard To Tell Stories by giving them a voice. A Narrator. A Strong Narrator. Taking them back, out of the night, with the help of a flashlight I find myself clicking on for the very first time.

So come find me and I’ll share an Ugly Story with you.

The doctor is about to come back to the room. No, of course it’s not good news, you should know this by now. Yes, it’s cancer. I’m sorry, but I know that doesn’t matter. You’re twenty, it’s 2 o’clock on a Wednesday afternoon, and nothing really matters. Instead of algebra homework and Facebook conversations, you’ve spent the morning going through blood tests and x-rays, with no idea why everyone’s being so dramatic about a little fatigue and a high fever. I’m so sorry.

I want you to know, you’re going to ask questions. Because you’re smart and you’ve never felt so stupid. Because cancer sucks, but aside from that, you don’t know the first thing about it. But you know something’s wrong.

I want you to know, your mind will wander. Let it. You’re about to move into a hospital with four stark white walls, a bed, a TV set straight out of the ‘90s, and a slew of machines and monitors that will hum and beep endlessly through the night. You’re going to wonder “why you?” and then you’ll see the 7-year-old boy in the room next to you, with a brazenly bald head and a smile you can’t even fathom and you’ll wonder, “Why him?” You’ll watch him toy with G.I. Joe action figures and wake up early to catch all the Saturday morning cartoons and you’ll wonder why. You’ll understand what he doesn’t: you know something’s wrong. And then you’ll feel envy, in that you wish you didn’t understand, in that you wish this had happened thirteen years back.

But there’s something you should know: you don’t understand. And you don’t need to. There is no God, I know. But there are doctors. There are nurses. There’s your family, and your friends. And there’s a small shot in hell you might actually pull through this thing.

And then you’ll have a change of heart. At some point, pity will seem pointless. You’ve had enough of sorrow in visitors’ faces, of Edible Arrangements and helium balloons. When acquaintances  catch wind of your story and send you one hundred hand-written letters of overwhelming support and sympathy, don’t feel guilty for resenting them. You’ll cherish them in time, and when you’re older, you’ll cherish them still. Maria, I hope you’re still pursuing fashion. Brad, I hope you make the AFL. And Taylor, Merry Christmas to you too.

Life is confusing. We both know this, but what you don’t know yet is that it’s perfectly okay. Because life will always be confusing. After all, it’s not about searching for answers; it’s about searching for questions. And you’re not alone. Find comfort in that.

In the face of adversity, face change. You’ll think about reinventing yourself. Consider a tattoo, perhaps on your middle finger, the word “cancer.” You’ll think about your future, and tell yourself you’re never having kids. “They’re annoying,” you’ll tell people, when in your heart of hearts you’ll know you could never watch a child, your child no less, go through this hell. Besides, they are really annoying. You’ll scoff at the office jobs you promise yourself never to get lost in: a world of 9 to 5 routines, of suits and schedules you never want to partake in. You’ll find something you love, someone you love. You’ll take trips to the Mexican Riviera in the middle of October, because you can. You’ll wake up in beds you don’t remember falling asleep in, and you’ll cook Christmas dinner with your best friend instead of your relatives. You hear that? That’s “responsibility” calling, and you’re running from it. Go. Run fast, and run far. In those moments when you feel alone, when you feel like nobody, feel like anybody you want to.

See the light. There is one, trust me, and you’ll see it. Not right away, but eventually. After months of chemotherapy, radio, of high-fevers and antibiotics, of daily blood tests and constant monitoring, there will be a light. And it will power you forward. All of a sudden, it won’t be a “maybe” anymore, but a “yes.” Yes, you did it. You’re winning all the battles, and soon, you’ll win the war. And then you’ll come to a crossroad, as hard as that is to believe. You’re proud, and justifiably so. Feel that pride, and then feel pain. Feel an unnerving sense of pain that, once again, you can’t understand. Feel worry, feel scared, and feel uncertain all over again.

All of a sudden, the light’s approaching too fast, and you’re not ready. You’re not ready for the real world. You’ve found a bizarre sense of comfort in the bubble of the hospital. Your mother never left your side, for days she slept on an air mattress in the corner of your hospital room and stood by you through the darkest of darks. The doctors never left your side; the nurses were always there.

Resent the light. Wish it wasn’t coming. Wish there was another cycle of chemotherapy, another infection, another recovery. Wish there was another season of America’s Next Top Model to watch with your favourite nurse. Sure, she’s twenty-six and married, but that’s what has become your notion of a friend right now, and friendship is something you’re in no place to lose. But that’s okay. Realise, understand, acknowledge that when you felt like you lost your life, you didn’t at all. You gained life, and once again you’re afraid of losing it all.

Don’t let it go. You don’t have to, and you won’t. What you’ve yet to realise is that even when they unplug your IV, when they take your name off the door to room #9 on the north wing of the fourth floor of the Hutch Hospital of Eastern Washington, when the doctor finally says, “Go home. You’re done, it’s done, we’re done,” that she’s lying. It’s never done. You may not have cancer anymore, but you’re still a cancer patient. Realise you never made it to the light, no matter how bright it became. Realise that whenever you want, wherever you want, you’re whoever you want to be, with or without a cancer diagnosis. Never let that go.