That’s what Kate said I was yesterday. And the funny or not so funny thing is, I was. And I am. In fact I am completely unplayable. I also always have been. A bit. It’s what makes you love or hate me. I have always ignited quickly. And often irrationally. And I can be a real bitch. But I had learnt to breathe a bit. But all this fucking around with my hormones has just sent me off the charts. It was already happening before this last recurrence due to Femara, my previous aromatase inhibitor, and my ‘mood stabilising’ meds no longer being effective. But now with all the new crap we have serious lift off. I react to everything with absolute venom and anger. There is no momentary recognition, ok this is annoying but really nothing to react to, there is just simply ape shit fucking hell hath no fury like a woman on Aromasin angry. The thing that really pisses me off though is not that I’m not given some slack for not being me. Or for being the worst version of me. Nor even that I have to humiliate myself by constantly saying, seriously guys cut me some slack here, I mean cancer. Even I’m bored by that. And the eye rolls indicate so are they. As we all are. The thing that actually pisses me off is that we are even having to be in this space. I have to be on this medication. It makes me impossible. Okay, more impossible. And I know I’m being impossible. But knowing doesn’t change a damn thing, psychobitch cares less. Then I think maybe you can stop doing what you’re doing that makes me become psychobitch even if it doesn’t seem fair. Because fuck it, none of this seems fair. But why should you. And who knows whats going to set me off. So I feel squarely fucked. I have to be on these meds. I knew the side effects were going to be beyond challenging. I never really thought they would create a chasm between me and those nearest to me. They are prescribed to give me more time before the next recurrrence and to reduce the risk of new cancer. And I like time. But if we all end up hating each other, is the time worth it. And then there’s all the other shit rattling around in my brain. Psychobitch feeds off that shit. Anyhow before you all wonder if you need to call for help, I’ve recognised I need to. I need to dump all my anger, grief, disappointment, stress, insecurity, unworthiness, uncertainty on someone. Someone who doesn’t love me and really couldn’t give a fuck what I say or do or think or believe. It won’t help me not be psychobitch, I need more meds for that. But it might make her a tad more tolerable. In the meantime, you have been warned. Psychobitch coming through.
I witnessed an outpouring of emotion in B this week that reminded me how it is so not all about me. Before you comment I really do know it’s not. But we make it about ourselves to protect everyone. And ourselves. If I’m coping or seen to be coping then they can cope too. It never ever is only about us but the one thing I know for sure, cancer, facing one’s mortality head on again and again and again, is a truly lonely reality. One that can’t be shared in its entirety. Not even with those who love you. Sometimes especially not even with those who love you. Not even with those who’ve been there and are still here. Because it’s just so bloody unique. We are. The circumstances are. Your realities are. You are. There is noone, as much as they wish to be there, with you in your head. Which for me is where the battle is won and lost. Your acceptance and willingness and determination to do battle is alone. You dig deep alone. And you hold yourself together. Because you must. Because if you start to cry, you fear you will never stop. I did what I must and do what I have to to carry on. But the depth of despair in those who can’t show you how deeply it hurts and how damaged they are at having to witness you suffer is beyond comprehension. By you not showing your vulnerability because you just can’t, doesn’t allow them to show theirs, which is just immense. To hold someone up, while helping them hold themselves up, by not sharing their real fear, so you can’t share yours is all kinds of fucked up. But all kinds of necessary. For some. Certainly for me. But sometimes the brave face we wear and force on others is so very unfair because whilst it is about us and our survival, it is about so much more. And yet I do still believe, be there in whatever form your loved one needs and when the time is right, let your guard down and show them your truth. Acceptance is a battle well and truly fought alone but within the safety of your presence one gets there a little less scarred. Pun intended.
I thought I’d let things fall where they needed to this past month or so. Heeding the advice of many that whilst things feel like they’re falling apart they’re not. They’re just falling into something different. And ain’t that the truth. Bugger is I was quite happy with the before. But growth is something I welcome and change something I’ve learnt to. And we do grow and even transform when we have huge obstacles to overcome. Into something new. But I just can’t quite settle into the new me yet so I’m still letting things fall in to place. Or further apart. And then hopefully back together again. All I do know is, I am not who I was. But dammit, this new me needs to get her shit together soon. I’m feeling far more vulnerable now than when I was kicking cancer’s ass. I was focussed. I was determined. I was a warrior. I had a purpose. I had an army. I was positive. I was not needy. I was not uncertain. I am not fearful, nor am I negative. And I am so very grateful. But just a little hesistant. A little uncomfortable. A little do I just carry on like nothing happened. Like everything is not different. Forever. Do I live every day like its my last. Do I bother. Do I doubt it all. Do I celebrate it all. Do I just be. Do I love the different me that looks back at me. Obviously I know the answers and hopefully I’ll do exactly that once things all fall into place. And they will. And then they won’t. But universe, no more growing needed. I’m all grown up now.