I might be depressed. Or I could just be suffering anxiety. I know for a fact my paranoid brain isn’t letting me live my day to day in anything that resembles straightforward thought patterns and my body certainly isn’t offering me any security in the shape of putting one foot in front of the other without fearing where the hell it’s going to take me.
I’m over thinking, over analysing and – probably – over elaborating.
Before I had cancer I had the worries any grown up has; will there be enough money, will my children grow into well rounded individuals, will I do a good job at work, will I ever get to the bottom of the laundry pile? You know, normal (ha – normal!) concerns that you can talk about to someone and they’ll understand because they’ve got exactly the same worries too. Commonplace, everyday, straightforward worries. I want them back now please.
Where do I start? With my body image that is rock bottom? My fear that what has happened to me in the last year will haunt my boys and make them unable to develop into the well rounded individuals I want them to? Anyone who knows my youngest knows that statement is a little tongue in cheek but you know what I’m saying. Or what about the fact I’m making life an absolute misery for my poor long suffering husband whom everyone knows is a total gem and who would never do anything to hurt me? This last one is undoubtedly the one that makes me saddest.
Throughout my diagnosis and treatment Dave has been there. Whether it’s been to get the boys to school when I felt too ill or to bring me cheesy mash and beans on chemo day or to hug me when my friend died or to tell me being bald suited me, he’s been there, holding my back. I suppose it’s the nature of the beast that is cancer.
My body is changed beyond recognition. My surgery gave me a new breast, which looks nothing like a real one. It hasn’t got a nipple, the effects of the radiotherapy are making it shrivel like a prune and it’s nearly two inches higher than the other one which is drooping more now because the bras I have to wear now offer less support than the underwired delights I’ve talked about before. It’s not a good look. It’s not even a funny look. It’s a blank thing that has no sensation and is devoid of anything redeeming; except the fact that it doesn’t have cancer which of course overrides everything else but sometimes that’s cold comfort. Each time I get dressed or undressed I am reminded of my cancer and of my ugliness. I know, I know, I know, I ought to be embracing it; I ought to be one of those women who stands proudly showing her scar and believe me those women have ALL my respect but I’m not there yet. I don’t know if I’ll ever be.
So from this physical transformation has developed a brain which works against me, and this is where the little suggestion of depression comes from.
I’ve never particularly suffered from anxiety or depression - maybe moments in my younger years but that was more melodrama than anything – so this has come as a bit of a surprise to me. It was a physical thing to begin with, a little nugget of worry lodged firmly in the middle of my chest. It got worse over time, not especially getting bigger but definitely getting more solid and sharper, to the point where even if I wasn’t worrying about something I would have the physical feeling to remind me that I should be worrying about something.
And in my chest this nugget has grown and my worries have increased and my paranoia is too embarrassing to detail because it is exactly that – paranoia – but by crikey it feels real and horrible and truly as if I actually am the useless, ugly, fat, good for nothing, ineffective excuse for a woman this voice tells me I am.
Even writing this now, when I know it sounds silly, I believe it.
I am currently lump free. I don’t know how long I’ll stay lump free for, maybe forever, maybe not, but that’s not the battle I’m fighting now. To coin a cliché, the battle I’m fighting now is with myself. Daily I struggle with the negative thoughts which make the tears fall and the feeling of hopelessness which encompasses me. I stick a smile on and suck it up when I can, but sometimes, when it gets too much Dave gets the brunt of it and then because I’m being so horrid to him the paranoia kicks in and it all starts again. Cancer is the gift that keeps on giving.
I am seeking support, I’ve made enquiries about counseling and I’m hoping to join a group therapy setup for women like me. I need to be in a room of women and not feel like the odd one out. I need, somehow, to feel normal again. Whatever that is.
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