I’ve run out of things to say when people ask how I’m doing.
I’m fine. It’s manageable. I’m bad. I feel sorry for myself. I feel lucky. I am brave. I can do this. But it sucks. And most of all? I’m god damn tired of talking about myself. Just kidding, all I want to do is talk about myself but even I think it’s boring. My life feels teeny tiny. And it’s still the very beginning of the cancer. In fact it’s barely started.
For about ten days I’ve been shuffling around. I’m in pain, I have fatigue, and I just let it happen to me. That felt like real old school depression: I couldn’t use my tools. Yesterday I decided that I can make time for those days – but they need boundaries. Like two or three days wallowing in pain and fear is ok, then I have to get back to living. I know I can fake it til I make it. I know that my brain doesn’t know the difference between forcing myself to socialize and wanting to socialize – once I’m there I’m there.
I did not understand the mental gymnastics that a chronic illness requires. For instance: can you imagine how good it feels for people to constantly be praising me for just showing up? I mean people have the lowest of expectations of me and when I meet those expectations I am a hero. Someday, probably in the near future, that’s going to trickle down. Very soon people are not going to think I am superhuman because I differentiate between day pajamas and night pajamas.