My Words Take on The World

Although I’m still homebound, I feel as though some authentic piece of me is strolling around town as my writing and awareness tools gain visibility. The force for change, for equality, for justice I breathe into my work is emulsifying with every printed word.

The following original designs are all available for purchase. Please contact me for pricing and details. The proceeds help to make possible my continued medical care and recovery.

Locals can find my “Heart in Hand” postcard at Postal Plus and New Earth Market.

Thank you all for your support! It would mean the world to me if you would consider re-blogging this post or sharing on other social media networks!

View more of my work currently for sale here.

Did you know May is Lyme disease awareness month? Check out my Instagram for details about how to win this Symptom chart and be a part of spreading awareness!

Tick Talk Newsletter 

Without further ado, I proudly present to you the Tick Talk Newsletter! A combination of unabashed stories from the trenches of chronic illness, raw photography, awareness and educational tidbits, I am grateful for the joining of minds which made possible this publication. My sincerest gratitude to Chico Printing for bringing to life this unique creation! If you would like copies in print to share, please let me know. 

Should you wish to be a contributor to subsequent editions of Tick Talk, please review the submission guidelines on my Instagram page @brianabeaver1. Enjoy and happy reading!

Better Late Than Never

Greetings my fellow bloggers and readers! I have taken the next step in broadcasting my words across the land: Instagram! You can now find excerpts and corresponding artistic collaborations on my Instagram account dedicated to my writings. As per my usual technological style, I am showing up fashionably (or maybe not so stylishly) late to the diverse social networking party. It would be my pleasure to connect with you through Instagram. Please comment below with your account information, or better yet, follow me and I will happily return the favor!

I Bet You Think This Isn’t About You, Don’t You?


I liked him. But not really. His humble venire had begun to crack, filtering grimy sunshine over our conversations. Not so apparent are the indicators of a robust self-involvement after an hour or two of chatter. Those hours accumulated, though, and painted against a background of literal life and death, such trivial self-absorbent themes, gained visibility. 

Honestly, though, who was I to complain? My unorthodox housebound lifestyle bred a loneliness that instead of fading into routine, only multiplied with time. So, a few hours of weekly musings over the phone seemed an upgrade from the alternative. A twenty something with failing health but a determined desire to connect had me answering the phone time and again. But, more often I was the one dialing, a detail that pricked my consciousness. Not only were my finances in an ever dwindling state due to exorbitant medical expenses and my inability to work, but moreover, I initiated most interactions. 


I don’t know him anymore. Whatever pages about him I had penned, were torn from a novel that will never be. In retrospect, the recognition that spending time alone with my own company far surpasses splicing time with another, while simultaneously feeling exponentially more alone, I remember. I carry this truism like an accouterment, tucked dearly within.

Adriano Ficarelli

Confines of Chronic

Anthropomorphism just isn’t cutting it. I can trace faces on my supplement cylinders, project conversations onto crannies in the wall, superimpose delicately folded forms into the mesh of my surroundings, but to no avail. The hollowness echoes, the clock pulses on. “Will anybody ever find me,” I wonder. Encapsulated within the confines of chronic, I invite connection, affection, the unknown human caress as my air purifier purrs on…

Last Call

“If I go to the doctor and he gives me a positive ALS diagnosis, I will kill myself.” The tenor of his robust, gravelly voice billows into the velveteen night. I tromp through verdant, unmanicured tufts of grass silhouetted by pearlescent mirage.

“Will you stay on the phone with me as I die?” The gravity of this extemporaneous request is laden with complexity and unabashed authenticity. My familiarity with the depravity of chronic survival simultaneously intensifies and anesthetizes me to his words. The slap of frigid wind against my diminutive form urges me back towards the incubation of my house. As I beckon my beloved golden-haired gent forward, my mind reels back. Reviewing the cataclysmic chapters, emulsifying mistrials of medicine, castigating me against remembering what I will never forget. The inarguable truism that survival moonlights as a persistent cornucopia of incarnations is never far from my mind. I can traverse millennia, urging moments into decades, and yet I find myself combating the hackneyed insatiable tormentors within.

Brian Wondra

“Briana?” He asks. “Are you still there?”

“Yes. I’m still here.”