I am trapped. I am under a blanket that is so heavy I can’t get it off.
Do I even want it off?
Some days I’m for sure that I would just like to stay under that blanket forever. Life is too hard. This is too hard. Olivia, parenting, work, the house and FUCKING CANCER is too much. I’m too tired and worn out. I can’t do it.
And this is where I’ve been living for the last few weeks. Maybe even months.
I’m mad. I’m so angry right now. I’m having a major pity party for myself over here. It’s not fair. I’ve been through so much in my life and it’s just not fair. I shouldn’t have to work so hard, to struggle so much, to have so many huge and scary things in my life. It’s not fair, damn it. Not fair.
And then I get mad at myself. I should be so fucking happy right now. I’m, knock on wood, going to be fine. Come April, I will be officially cancer free and I’ll be done. There’s little likelihood that it will come back. I should be over the fucking moon and instead this is one of the lowest points of my life. I suppose it’s like a woman who goes through infertility, finally has a baby and then gets postpartum depression. (Been there.) You should be on top of the world over this baby and instead you’re the lowest you’ve ever been. So it doesn’t have to make sense, but it makes me feel like an asshole for not just being grateful 24/7. I’m too mad and tired and worn out to be grateful.
I haven’t felt good in months. Almost a year. Do you know what that feels like? It’s awful. I’m still in pain. Still. I’m exhausted. Still. I’m emotionally a mess. Still. It’s crazy. I still look around and ask “is this really happening to me?”. I still can’t believe it’s real. And you know what’s the kicker? On top of everything else, I have daily reminders of cancer. My barely there hair. My haven’t-come-back-yet eyelashes. (Who knew you could miss mascara so much?) The extra 15 pounds that sits around my middle. The clothes in my closet that don’t fit. The pill I have to take every day to keep future cancer at bay. The horrid acid indigestion that won’t go away. The scars. The port. The missing part of my breast. The way Matthew hugs me harder and worries about me more. Every single day it’s there. You have cancer. You could have died. You are going through hell. You have months until it’s over. You wonder if you’ll ever, ever feel like yourself again.
But lately I’ve been really trying hard to get out from underneath the blanket that threatens to suffocate me. I’m trying to be kind to myself. To do things I enjoy. To try and find joy. To count my blessings. To know that it’s ok to have bad moments, bad days, bad feelings. I’m getting there. It’s slow. But I’m getting there.
I’m a fighter…till I collapse, I’ll keep going.