so, i’m a bit bleak at the moment. not really cancer related – in fact, the only thing cancer has to do with it right now is that i’m so fed up with living like this, i’ve requested a treatment break from my medical team. it so happens that i was due for one anyway, so it works out well, but i’m negotiating ending chemo for the year. but i think that’s the depression talking.
it is a weird sort of misery, this time. normally my depression is primarily physiological, and i feel terrible – don’t get me wrong – but in a way that i feel .. SICK. sick. sick in a way that’s hard to place.
right now, i don’t. i loathe myself. i have a voice in my head repeating ‘worthless, useless waste of space’ – that’s the phrase that the Voice has used since i was a teenager. it runs through every aspect of my life, like the veins in my liver that are going to have a camera fed into them in two weeks. i feel like i am better off just getting this shit over and done with. i feel like i am in the way, like i disrupt people’s lives and loves and interests. i feel bad for wanting anything from anyone, because i don’t deserve it. i don’t deserve any of it. and so on. all you out there, with the same voice in your heads, you know what i mean here. tendrils. i want to withdraw and stop speaking to everyone. every single word i type at people no longer feels like an essential part of myself i am giving, but rather, a tax, a weight, a waste of time, a boring imposition. it is hard to remain worthwhile in this. it is hard to care.
but. surgeon. he came through again. looks like my liver, if it responds to the procedure they are going to do, will be operable after all. maybe. depending on response, on how well it survives it, if the current chemo drains it too much. i don’t know. my memory is going, picked apart one day at a time, one bit at a time shaved off, until i forget what people are saying mid-sentence and need to ask them to repeat it. my nurse is concerned, because that could also be brain secondaries. i’ll probably need a brain scan soon to check. it’s possible. it could be a heap of other things. i don’t know. i don’t know if i care. that’s where i’m at.
i apologise a lot. the reasons i do this are complicated, but mostly centre around the fact that i loathe what i am doing to people, and i am fucking furious. it is much easier to apologise than to say ‘i am so angry that this is what is happening to me. i am so angry that you have to deal with this. i am angry at my body. i am angry at the fact they missed it for so long.’ i am so angry i am tired and barely feel it.
i try and be clearer. when i am sorry, i often mean ‘thank you for helping clean up my vomit’. i mean ‘thank you for changing your plans to take me to the doctor.’ i mean, ‘i want this to end as much as you do, and i appreciate you helping me.’ i mean ‘i hate ER visits so much and i want to burn things down because all i wanted to do was stay home.’
sometimes too, i feel like i am an imposition. and sometimes? i know that i am. that’s not me being Mean To Myself, it’s a simple observation of cancer running through lives and surroundings and everyone. i am in the way. i am a pain. i am forgetful and selfish and annoying and exhausting. it’s not self deprecation to state that. it’s another observation. i don’t know how to reconcile this with still being valuable some days. or being worth it. right now, i don’t feel like i am, but i know that’s just the snapping connections in my brain, and one and a half years of chemotherapy, and a stack of my own insecurities coming out here. i’ll get past it. i always have.
i also feel bad about writing about depression that i don’t feel about writing about the ugly parts of cancer, and i observe this in myself as i write this. similar to writing about mania, i feel like i sound like i want attention and sympathy, when all i want to do is desperately vent. when you enter the c a n c e r word into anything, you become solid, your pain becomes quantified, your situation is real. when i’m depressed – when i sit here counting the ways to die – when i think about how bad it would be to just throw in treatment now, and lie on my side, on the couch, staring at the wall until my liver fails, i am not BRAVE, or INSPIRATIONAL or COURAGEOUS. i am not FIGHTING A BATTLE. i am just another fucking depressed person. i never know if this is projection. but it feels like that. what if i state that the depression is caused by oxaliplatin involved neuropathy, and the nerve endings in my body have stopped working properly, and my mood is being pulled to pieces because C A N CEEE EEHHH ERRRRR? is that real enough? does it matter now that it’s stated and articulated? what if this is just me getting the sads because it’s the end of the year and i feel really bummed out about something stupid that i should be an adult about and get over? does that matter?
if i’m eligible for surgery, i’ll need the nano-knife first. it’ll be around $30 000. maybe being depressed makes sense.