It’s Just the Drugs Talking…..Right?

 

I have steroids wrecking havoc on my system.  I can’t seem to get away from them.

I would be all done with them except they are the only thing at the moment keeping a tedious and excruciating pain away.

Days later I feel the emotional effects.  Which are just as worse as the pain.

Lose Lose.

I’m tired of the disgust towards my body I am carrying.  It’s becoming obsessive.  And scary.

I thought working out was suppose to help you fee better?  Instead I just feel more depressed and unsure.  I don’t know what the hell I am doing.  How do I know if what I am doing is effective?  How many times do I need to do this?

I just want pizza.

Either way I look at it, restriction comes from somewhere, and some part of my being suffers regardless.  (though typing that and thinking about how I am “suffering” from lack of pizza is quite ludicrous.) But my relationship with food is dangerously close to becoming unhealthy.  Every time I eat, I want to cry and the shame just washes over me.  I feel every calorie turn to fat and settle into the blubbery recesses of my ass.

This is what cancer has done to me.

 

And I hate it’s fucking face.

 

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Tired Climb

I’ve been keeping to myself since the completion of my final treatment.  Staying quiet. It’s been a rough one emotionally and for a few days there I found myself sinking into an ugly pit of anger and sadness.

Depression we meet again.

I wish I could say that it’s turned tail and scampered off, but it still sits at the foot of my emotions waiting for whatever scrap it can gnaw it’s teeth into.

I’ve been sort of distancing myself, not really reaching out.  Frankly I don’t have the energy to really explain the way I feel, because I feel that everything I am feeling in the past days is stupid compared to the grand scheme of things.  There is no real justification.  Again…on a grander scale.  That and I just don’t feel like people can truly understand or grasp the reasons why I feel the way I do.  So I waited for the tides to pull out before reaching out and easing back into “everyday life “and social interactions.

Cycle 7, if memory serves correct, went off ok.  I don’t recall it being too incommodious.

I was moving around quite a bit.  Getting out.  I think I  felt pretty good.

Another aspect of what was so great about finishing cycle seven was the realization that I just had one more cycle to go.  I found such a sense of peace and comfort in knowing that this whole hardcore chemo ordeal was almost over.  I was in a state of gratitude.  I found myself taking pauses to just thank the heavens that be for getting me this far.  Not going to lie but I also fantasized quite a bit about that moment when I would finish my last bag of chemo and the elation and alleviation that would hopefully follow.

Then came cycle eight.  The very last one.  I went in with my warrior face on, ready to knock it out of the park.  I felt mentally and emotionally prepared.  I knew what I had to do.  There would be no boo hooing about it too.  If they wanted to give me all the lasix, then so be  it.  I would do it.  (and they pretty much did, but I did it.)

There were some hiccups with the last cycle, but I tried to keep a level head about me and push through best I could.  (I said I tried, I mean I didn’t rip anyone’s face off…as much as I wanted to.)

My last lumbar puncture was an ordeal. The technician for the life of her could not get the needle into my spine, so she continuously kept jabbing me in areas outside of where she had numbed.  Not to mention she would also hit bone in my spine.  After thirty minutes of misses, she decided to try a spot that other technicians had found successful in the past.  Again, her aim was not precise and I had to endure another twenty minutes of needle jabbing.  You’d think with a fluroscope she could see what she was doing, but I guess the needle didn’t want to cooperate.  I think she was pretty upset herself.  She left the room in quite a hurry when all was said and done.  Still I got through it.

But no more lumbar punctures.  That was my last one.  So I suppose that is one good way to look at that.  Actually no supposing.  It is the only way to look at that.

The day I finished my very last bag of chemo, there wasn’t much fanfare.  Not that I expected there to be.  I had thought I would have been more emotional than I was… but I was unhooked from the bag and cried in my boyfriend’s arms for a few minutes.  We talked about how grateful we were that it was done and over, but I think the physical exhaustion of what we were both feeling took precedent over the moment, and naps ensued.

It wasn’t until my last day in the hospital, when I was finally unhooked from everything and able to take a shower that things started to shift to a dark place.  As I was putting my clothes on to go home, I caught glimpse of myself in the mirror and my heart just broke.

Who the fuck was this girl?

What happened to her?

How could anyone be attracted to this girl yet alone love her?

It’s quite superficial considering all that has happened and the fact that I am still alive, but it was definitely the catalyst into my depression and anger that ushered me into a million other thoughts and fears.

My body is a wreck.

All of my muscle has deteriorated leaving behind areas that are just out of shape.  There are ripples and dimples that have become quite prominent.  While maybe not major for some, for someone with body dysmorphia I can’t even begin to tell you how much it disgusts me.  I’ve never been comfortable with my body, mostly due to my bone condition.  It took me years of actually getting to a place of acceptance and self love and now I feel that I have just been shoved back another ten years.  What I see today is NOT acceptable.

It’s not acceptable because this is just one more thing cancer robbed from me.

And once again….I’m angry.

I can’t even look in the mirror while getting dressed.  When I bathe, I try to turn a blind eye.  It’s very unsettling to me and triggers all kinds of unhealthy coping mechanisms, mechanisms I am trying to not indulge in which can be very mentally tiring.

Everyone keeps saying that once I start moving around more I will lose the weight.  That once I start working out I should be fine.  That it’s not as bad as I think it is.

Yeah?  Well I don’t want to fucking work out.  I’ve already worked enough battling this asshole disease…and here is just one more thing I have to add to the clean up list.

I’m just tired of working at this disease.

Any disease for that matter.

I know it sounds unmindful that I would be so caught up in the physical, especially when I still have my life and that I have overcome so much. I am grateful.  Sometimes it feels like the gratitude sinks so far below the surface.  I know it’s there.  I can feel it, and when I go fishing for it, sometimes it’s an old boot or tin can that I pull up.  Not exactly what I was looking for, but there it is.  I’m sure the mixture of drugs isn’t helping my emotional state, especially the steroids.  I was told I wouldn’t have to take them anymore, so hopefully that will calm things down and help with me being more rational.  Of course I was sent home with the leucovorin to pull whatever traces of methotrexate from my body, and that always makes me feel like a loon.  I finished that last round a week ago, so again, trying to wait calmly for that moment of “even”.  Again emphasis on the word trying.

This journey is still not over.  There is still the maintenance chemo that will take place for the next year or two, and while it may not be as intense as the Hyper cvad or as time consuming, it will still be a part of my life, and a daily reminder that this dickface cancer needs to just stay away.

And stay away it better, because I don’t have time anymore for it’s bullshit.  I’ve got things to do…and yes, as much as it angers me and makes me even more tired thinking about it, I will clean up it’s mess, throw it’s shit out on the lawn, change the locks and move on with my life.