by Wallace (Compiled by), Heather Davies (Compiled by), Steven Schwier (Compiled by) Real. Raw. Heartfelt. Dear Meniere's Letters & Art A global Meniere's project by people living with Meniere's disease. An insightful and revealing collection of letters and art about the journey of people living with Ménière's disease. Take a look inside and see why it is the most liveable disease that no doctor wants, and why many celebrities and people are unable to continue in their careers. Collated by Julieann Wallace, Anne Elias, Heather Davies and Steven Schwier. Proceeds donated to Ménière's disease research. Dear Meniere's, You f@&$ing suck! Never Yours, Fuming Florence Dear Ménière's, I wish I could stand at the ends of the earth, where the winds blow swiftest, and feel the gentle sway caused by the blowing, not by my lack of balance, and have the winds blow away the tinnitus and the brain fog. To have, for just one moment again in time, the silence of sound. The clarity of mind. To feel energised by life and not drained by it. I imagine standing on a windswept shore. The noise I hear is the rustle of seagrass, the blowing of the southerly wind, the heave and heft of the ocean. Sea salt and sand pepper my skin. The incessant ring in my ears is quiet, drowned out by the oceans song or swept away, I neither know nor care, I cannot hear it. The salty air fills my lungs, its brusqueness blows away the ever present fog in my brain. Thoughts, swirling vaguely in my brain, come to the forefront. They take shape, as clear and sharp as the broken shells beneath my feet. I'm not moving through a miasma, I'm as clear as the sun shining through the water that rolls onto the sand and back out again. Each deep breath clears more fog from my head and returns more of me to myself, as if the real me lives out there in the ocean, waiting to be breathed in on the winds. I miss who I was. Kelly Ménière's disease since 1998 Dear Meniere's Disease, Because of you ... Last year my neighbour asked my girlfriend if we had separated because he hadn't seen me for months. That hurt. Last year I couldn't make the fl ight that enabled me to say a proper goodbye to my dying Gran. That hurt. Last year you took away my creative soul, and most of my hobbies until I could just stare at nothing but four walls 24/7. That hurt. Last year I counted to 73. Th at was the amount of times I was well enough to leave my door. That hurt.