4 years later

The amber skyline inhales it’s last breath of light and exhales a nuclear ash glow into the expectant mouth of nightfall. One last gasp of light before the moon’s nefarious smile watches over the dark-side of Earth. Darkness so still and weightless is contrasted by a diligent symphony of tiny vampire insects that conduct an evening score with robotic transmission. Limbs moving fast and mechanically. Rhodopsin molecules regenerate and reconfigure in my retina as my vision adapts to the absence of light. Rods and cones realign; darkness fades to shades of grey. Shadows and highlights. Smoky wisps of just-snuffed candles dance with pleasure as the evil creatures of night emerge to lurk around in this dark underworld.

I sit alone on my parent’s deck in rural Maryland, eavesdropping on the screeching dialogue between cicadas that bounces erratically off the thick wet trees much like my mind does in this moment of reflection. Four years ago I was diagnosed with breast cancer, but it honestly feels like 20 years ago. I have trouble remembering things coherently from that period in my life; I was barely present most of the time due to a shitload of legally prescribed drugs in addition to my overwhelming anxiety which hardboiled a shell around my brain like a protective fence to keep all records of my innermost horrors from wandering out and scaring the shit out of me. My brain still has trouble remembering what I did two days ago, and sometimes I actually have to think and count out how old I am.  Recently, I accidentally ate a fucking dog tranquilizer pill instead of a Xanax on a 3-hour plane ride because my cognitive brain function gave up a long time ago so now my frayed synapses communicate by whistling between two tin cans connected by a string.

I still struggle every single day to reconcile with post-traumatic stress and I probably will the rest of my life. I’m not a role model, I’m a realist. I’ve learned to ignore the waves of sadness and fear for my future until they occasionally drown me and I have to come up for air and face them with a painfully ugly cry and a few days spent drinking wine in my pajamas at 3pm. Then I’m good for a month or two. Writing down my deepest fears is a cathartic thing that I sometimes do—when I first began typing them out I was sobbing in self-pity, but I’ve continued to address my fears until they become infinitesimal and somewhat comical.

Fear: I may never have children.

Me: But I’m children, so do I really have any business raising a child of my own?

I dive deep into these dim cavernous tunnels of panic and anxiety, lost in a maze of nothingness, and when I come back up to the surface it is always humor that saves me, and my mind that forsakes me. Like a werewolf anticipating the moonlight, these feelings creep inside my brain during the waning hours of evenings drowned in wine until the darkness of night infects my conscious like a spreading virus that consumes my thoughts like flesh in the teeth of monsters.

Why did I survive, what did I learn, why do I feel sad on a day when I should be grateful,  what if I have cancer again right now in this moment, when are these feelings going to subside? I ask myself over and over ‘how did I get here’ to the point where no answer is the best answer and the question itself becomes white noise in my head like the muted woosh of a fan blade hoovering quietly on the ceiling.

But I am here. My changed appearance and mutated cells mirror the transformed person who occupies them. I am nothing like the person I was four years ago, and I am grateful. I see things differently, I think differently, I prioritize differently; with each passing year.

I have an unpublished journal entry from last year on my 3rd cancerversary and it reads like a different person wrote it. Who is that girl? I went through a phase where I hid my raw emotions in shopping bags or I buried them beneath the sand that I sat upon while drinking Modelo Lights and Instagramming pictures of myself or my scars with the ocean in the background just to show everybody how happy and carefree I was. I am still happy and quite carefree, but the difference now is that I don’t care who knows about it, and my most prominent cancer scars are the long, deep gashes into my psyche. And yeah it makes me feel really fucking stupid that four years later I still cannot fully grapple with the emotional side effects of one phone call from my doctor who nervously fumbled his words saying “Well, I don’t know how to tell you this. I was 99% sure that what I removed during surgery was not cancer, but the results came back positive. You have breast cancer.”

I can keep writing these same stories about how cancer changed me and I’m grateful; I’ll reword it using different metaphors and bullshit prose intended to stir emotion, but it’s not where I am right now. My life vacillates disproportionately between overzealous recklessness and flinching fear due to the ill-fated reality that I have a loaded gun named cancer pressed to my temple that begs to expel its willpower in a cruel game of Russian roulette. Everyone encourages me to write about cancer because I know how to write those “feel good” words that inspire people going through their own personal battles. My hope is that this different view of my story—the one where I’m more honest about my struggles—will help people just the same. I’m not a role model, but I want to be a testimony to living your life however the fuck you want, and that we should be talking about all of the good and bad feelings that come with it. So this is me: a dark, sulking, emo mess on my 4-year cancerversary. It’s my 4th birthday of feeling truly alive.

A change of tide

The tides are a changin’.

“Would you like to try that on? Can I help you find anything? Can I start you a fitting room?”

The worst thing about shopping is the nagging sales pitches that every dutiful employee is required to engage in. I hope that they hate doing it as much as the customer loathes hearing it, but it’s part of the job. Most would buy an article of clothing based on their partiality to the look or brand, but occasionally there are innate tangibles that persuade us to purchase something for more sentimental reasons. Such was the case with this sales pitch.

“This company is amazing, the founder’s father had cancer and died when he was very young, so now he has this line of shirts that say encouraging things on them.” She picks up a shirt and unfolds it to reveal the words Mind Over Matter.

Continuing her plug, “Cute, right? And on every tag there is a story from a different cancer survivor, or someone who has lost somebody to cancer. It’s really moving because it affects everybody. I mean, you probably know somebody like a friend or family member who has gone through cancer. So everybody can relate. It’s for a good cause.”

I looked down at my wrist and calmly put my hand over it to cover my tattoo. It says Mind Over Matter, but I didn’t want to show her. I self-consciously wanted to conceal my intimate knowledge of the same subject that she was passionately trying to sell me shirts through.

Why couldn’t I speak up and tell her that I was one of those people who had cancer? Lately, I just don’t feel like talking about it; I know the subsequent questions I would be asked as her happy sales-promoting face converted into a pouty lip and furrowed brow. She would look at me like I was an abandoned little puppy that needed to be adopted.

We all choose to hide certain things about ourselves in an effort to remain likeable. Although, in this case I’m certain she wouldn’t have changed her opinion of me either way, had I divulged my secret. But it wouldn’t have got me a free shirt either.

There have been countless times that I’ve been in a similar situation where I have to decide if I speak up or keep quiet about “the cancer thing.” There was a time when I couldn’t hide it because of the physical evidence of cancer—being bald for example. But my hair grew back, and there is increasingly less proof of the sick girl that I once was. Faded scars are the last trace of a bygone era.

I associated myself with my disease for so many years; it became who I was and what people knew me by—the young girl who got breast cancer. I grew fond of the label because it gave me a peculiar new sense of empowerment that I had accomplished and beat something. Now, as the years have passed, I find myself wanting to disassociate myself with my former label. I don’t want to be like that high school football player who still talks about the glory days and can’t move on in life. Stagnant. Unevolved. Those who cannot change or adapt, have already convinced themselves that they are unable to because of their current situation. “This is as good as it gets.”

As my environment is evolving away from cancer, I adapt, not to survive but to continue to improve upon myself and my understanding of the world. By changing my thinking from “sick cancer girl” to something more like “fucking badass” I’m leaving no space for excuses (although I still make them). Each experience in life is a means to get us to the next place in life; woven together to create a beautiful, intricate story that is as unique as the very DNA that flows through our veins.

What most people fail to understand is that you can write your own story—with intention, purpose, and foresight—your own paradigm shift is there for the taking if you’re willing to navigate yourself out of the prevailing winds.  This is something that I’ve struggled with recently.

I quit my job right before Thanksgiving. After cancer, it’s common to feel lost. We’re left wading in the water, surrounded by the fiery wreckage of a crashed airplane. I wanted time to decompress and find myself, but recently I feel like my time off has left me indolent and idle.

My lack of framework is mostly to blame for my barren ambition. I wrongfully assumed that when I quit my job I’d be swimming in creativity and a flurry of new projects to conquer that I’d previously never had time for. I was waiting for the “moment to strike” to want to write, but it rarely has happened. I assumed that once I was free from the daily burdens of my corporate job, that all my good ideas would flood my mind and I’d jump to it and get to work. I’ve waited around for something to strike. And here I am, nearly 8 months later in the Sahara desert of a creative drought.

How does one break free from the doldrums of complacency and zero motivation? I frequently feel ashamed and self-critical of this insidious helplessness that crept into my life like a weed slowly suffocating my garden of roses—and the neighbors have begun to notice my ill-manicured lawn. The deeper I get into this apathetic life and the less I mold structure out of my days has caused me to be a person that I hardly admire. I spend my days going to the beach and playing the role of a stay-at-home-girlfriend.

How did I get here? And am I becoming a millennial? Based on the year I was born, I am classified as a millennial. A self-interest seeking and unapologetic species who think memes are religion and marriage is outdated.

I talk shit about millennials but my ironic fate has turned me into that which I abhor. I have a short attention span. I usually write two paragraphs and excuse myself to the kitchen to go make a snack and forget about what I was originally writing altogether. Motivation = poof. I expect things to be handed to me when I know they won’t be, but that doesn’t stop me from sitting around and waiting. I procrastinate, my favorite word is tomorrow, and I spend way too much money on shoes and handbags because somehow this makes me feel like I’m worth something and hopefully convinces strangers that I’m mildly successful and I’ve got my shit together. Which, I do not. But that’s OK, there is always a low-pressure drop in the air before a hurricane approaches.

Women frequently express jealousy of my “stay at home girlfriend/dog mom” status. Nah, girl. It’s not all that great once you find yourself getting excited about a sale at Michael’s craft store, or a new season of Girlfriends Guide to Divorce that you can binge watch all night while drinking your new case of White Girl Rosé. It’s not all that great when you realize that you don’t have anything interesting to talk about except meaningless gossip. It’s not all that great when someone asks you that impending question “So what do you do for work?” And my response is usually something like “I’m a stay at home dog mom and I’m also trying to become a drug lord but it’s been really difficult breaking into the biz.”

I’ve discovered that thoughts don’t necessarily lead to generating action; contrarily, premeditated action and good habits are what generates productive thoughts. So I’m making a change. I’m placing stability and structure back into my life. I’m not going to go shopping at 1 pm followed by drinks on the beach at 3pm followed by happy hour with friends at 6 pm. I retract that—I’m not going to do that every day, but still maybe once in a while. It’s been a fabulous run, but Robert Frost had it right when he said “Nothing gold can stay.

There is undermined value in doing absolutely nothing for a while, but I’m pushing it’s limit so I’m trying to abide by my own new rules which I’ve neatly outlined below. 🙂

I don’t try to be better than anybody else, I just try to be better than the me I was yesterday.

 

  1. No one owes you anything.

Although, we’re taught to believe otherwise. My parents did an excellent job raising me and my two sisters, but yes, we were a bit coddled and spoiled. My first car was a BMW which they paid for. Was it a mistake on their part? No, they love me and just wanted the best for me, but it made me subconsciously believe that things would probably be handed to me without working for them. College too—I wasn’t paying for it so I didn’t value it as much as I should have. I mistook college as a chore. Another obligatory thing in life that I didn’t really want to do. We tend to mistake love for indebtedness—like we are owed some magical credit card fueled by the love we have for each other. Case in point is our cultural obsession with grandiose weddings and marriage proposals. My engagement ring should reflect how much my fiancé loves me. We’re going to have a huge expensive wedding because we’re so much in love that we want everybody to know. A show of money is not a show of love. LOVE should be manifested in physical and verbal acts of admiration, respect, emotional empathy, and commitment. Be kind, support each other’s mental needs, hold hands. The only thing we are owed in life, is kindness and love.

 

  1. Value your real relationships in life.

Shift your values. What do you want people to remember you by, when you die? That you had 100K followers on Instagram, or that you were a genuinely nice person who sought to help others in need? Sure, you can do both of those things. But our generation places increasingly too much value on the narcissistic fueled spectacles of a fake universe we call social media. If you have a strong influence on Instagram or Twitter, use it wisely, be helpful and encouraging to your followers. Think about the message you’re sending when you post an obviously-set-up-but-looks-candid photo and pretend to have a perfect life/perfect children/perfect ass, etc. I try to post the good with the bad, but sometimes I need to step away and not post anything at all.

 

  1. Stop complaining.

I wouldn’t trade places with anybody in the world. If you’re feeling sorry for yourself—that’s okay—you’re allowed to feel that way. Verbalizing your unhappiness in the form of bitching and projecting it on other people is not okay, and PS—nobody cares, so STFU. Instead of complaining, ask somebody you admire for advice regarding your situation. The only person who can help you is yourself.

 

  1. If you keep letting down yourself, you’ll eventually let everybody else down.

I struggle with this one a lot. It’s something I have to remind myself of daily. When we keep procrastinating and putting things off, that has an impact on who we are perceived as a person. If I can’t rely on myself to do something in a timely matter, why would anybody else rely on me for anything?

 

  1. Work fucking harder for the life you want.

Nobody is going to do it for you. I worked and saved money so that I could quit my job for up to a year, because that’s the life I wanted. I don’t regret it; I learned from it.

 

  1. Pray more.

God is real and wants to help you.

 

  1. When the vodka runs out, your problems are still there.

Sure, I like to drink just as much as any other young person, but drinking should be a reward to celebrate your accomplishments, and not a crutch for when your life isn’t going as planned.

 

  1. Take more risks.

The world is scary and we’re afraid to fail because we’ve been handed participation trophies our entire lives. High risks = high reward.

 

  1. Get the fuck off Facebook.

This is mostly for everybody else, because I’m hardly ever on Facebook. If you’re posting more than one time a day, then you’re on there too much. Go back to my #2 point.

 

  1. Stop comparing yourself to others.

We are taught to drive a car by looking ahead of us in our own lane. If you are constantly staring to your right and left at the nicer cars going faster than you, you’ll inevitably crash. You are unique in your own way, and nobody deserves comparison to you. It’s natural to be competitive and compare ourselves with others, but instead of thinking “I’m jealous of that person because they have (insert desirable attribute here),” try to think to yourself “I’m happy for that person, good for them.”

 

I’m at the point in my life where I don’t know what the hell I REALLY want to do. I got my real estate license, along with a slew of other useless licensees and laurels that are unprofitable additions to my repertoire. Like, a motorcycle license when I don’t own a motorcycle.

It took me thirty three and a half years to realize that I don’t always have to be DOING something. Sometimes, being alive is an accomplishment in itself. Sometimes we need time to reinvent ourselves. I’m not the same person that I was three years ago, so why should I be doing the same things as my old self?

I am resetting my life. I still don’t know what I want to “do” after my fun-employed life reboot. I’d like to find a way to comfortably exist with a job that doesn’t make me want to put my laptop in a panini press. Some people search their whole lives for that. But I have new goals, and I’ll be out there like Christopher Columbus with a wine glass in hand searching for my next conquest in life.

“The more you see yourself as what you’d like to become, and act as if what you want is already there, the more you’ll activate those dormant forces that will collaborate to transform your dream into your reality.” – Wayne Dyer