I am trying to get back in the habit of posting, whether I think anyone is reading or not. I stopped or slowed down for awhile because normally this is the place I share hope, or some inspired self-realization. And for the last while, I have struggled with both.
I’ve been pretty good at generally pulling hope out of nowhere. I’ve made some horrible choices that put me in some rough spots, and always managed to find a bright side on the way back out. I am usually very capable of looking at things that are not my fault, or even things that are, and after an appropriate time to process, let it go, with the thought “no point in worrying, then you just suffer twice”. Some reason this last year was kind of hard.
So whether or not I feel this way… I’m going to try.
This year I lost a relationship, with a hard-working, passionate, caring man. He saw me through months of chemo, patiently dealing with me when I was too tired to stand, throwing up every morning, and generally cranky because I didn’t feel good. He tirelessly did all the laundry, dishes, and made me “chewy” smoothies that were the color of the lawn. He would stay up with me all night when everything ached so bad I would shake with pain, or run and get me water 16 times a night. But, like most people that deal with traumatizing events, issues that we could or should have been working on during those months, were placed on the back burner and I became the focus. When the treatments were stopped, the tension he had been holding inside finally broke and the relationship couldn’t handle it. We are working on being friends, but the road is slow and bumpy. I will forever be grateful to him… because this one time, I’m not sure I could have done it alone.
I survived. I know this should be a good thing, but this was the second diagnosis in less that 12 months. The brave face I put on was the only thing I had energy for besides trying to keep some normalcy for the kids. I have people tell me I handled it well, and they were proud of me… I was falling apart every single day and wanted to quit and give up more often than anyone knows. There were days I would come home and lay in bed crying because I just missed feeling strong enough to do my own laundry. Surviving should have been a celebration, and I’m trying to get there. However, the stress of holding myself together finally caught up and though the poison was done, the wave of un-addressed feelings came crashing in all at once… and still are.
I can’t live in the what-ifs or what might happen. Because I am barely handling the now. I am not a victim, I am a survivor… but sometime survivors are tired and just need to fall apart.
So today, a day that marks another year lived… I am grateful for the extra days, or weeks, months, or years I am given. Thank you to everyone that was there for me then, but more now while I’m trying to remember how to live. I am reflecting on the bitter sweetness of the people that told me I wouldn’t be here now. I am catching up on the time I missed with my loved ones. And I am going to remember that sometimes it’s ok to not be ok.