It’s September 21, 2o10. I know that I’m writing this entry for future posting, and maybe that’s what’s going to make this interesting. Or, meaningless, who knows.
I just finished posting a reflective piece about “connections”, but the real post I wanted to write was this: I’m depressed. I alluded to it in different ways — “I’m not feeling as strong” or “I’m missing motivation” or “I just want to quit.” Those were the cowardly ways I wanted to express just how sad I’m feeling. Depressed. Totally.
I thought there’d be so much relief after getting a date. Truth is, I can’t stop crying. I went to my old blog posts to, well, to be “inspired by myself”, and realized that much of my latest posting has been pretty Debbie Downer (no offense to anyone named Debbie OR Downer).
It’s been hard posting this “draft” even now. I feel like I’m not being honest with my readers and friends who have counted on me to be so truthful during these past few months. I’ve posted my weight, posted my crying fits, my anxiety and my insecurity, my frustration about weight and body image, and my bumps in the running journey. But, I can’t bring myself to post this one. I can’t bring myself to admit to you that I’m feeling depressed.
I’m feeling that “dark cloud” feeling for so many reasons. Again, many of these I’m embarrassed to even admit. I know that, intellectually, the light is at the end of the tunnel; that, once I get this over with, I’ll be worry free (or worry-less). I’ll embrace life, I won’t fear cancer. I’ll have perky boobs and a mammogram free existence. I get it. I know it. I’m thankful for it.
And, yet, the emotional part is overwhelming right now. Each “memorable” thing that I do these days makes me think “Are we creating memories, just in case? Just in case.” Are we taking a family vacation, just in case? Are we getting together our will, just in case? Are we taking a family photo, just in case? Did this blog serve as a record for my young children, just in case?
Intellectually, I know the success rate. It’s high. Very high. The chances of me dying as a result of this surgery are very low. After surgery, the chance of me getting cancer are ridiculously low. So, intellectually, it’s, well a no-brainer.
And, yet, I’m feeling depressed. I’m angry this is happening to me. I’m angry this has happened to my sisters, my cousins, and my family. I’m terrified that BRCA is possibly in my children and, in turn, possibly in their children. I’m pissed that a “good person like myself” even has to deal with this shit.
The invitation to my pity party reads: “Come one, come all! Deadly disease? Invited! Extremely rare, non-hereditary tumors? Yes, you! Hereditary risks and body mutilation? Yes, bring desserts! Weird and totally uncommon genetic mutations? Bring a friend!”
I begin to feel especially bad when I think about people who never have to do this. Who never have to face this. Who experience life where their biggest worries are runny noses and fevers. Then, I feel extra bad for feeling bad about it. Like, I wouldn’t wish this upon anyone, and I certainly don’t wish this for me.
So, depression. It’s a funny little bugger, ain’t it? Can’t fight it. Don’t want to let it take over. Yet, it hangs around like a funky crap in a newly changed diaper. (sorry, my son just walked by me and I got a whiff).
Not much to do about it, folks. Which, maybe that’s why I was hesitant to post this one. Nothing to fix. It just is.
Sept 22, 2010
A little glimmer of hope today was when, for the first time, I logged onto the FORCE message boards. I found this amazing site of women who are post-mastectomy. WARNING: There are post-surgical pictures on here. Though I’m about to go through it, even some of it was hard for me to stomach. Yet the women are BEAUTIFUL!! BEAUTIFUL! BEAUTIFUL!! Please visit “Beauty and the Breast” and click on the PORTRAITS link at the bottom to see more.
Peace, love, and equally depressing just reading this depressing post,