I am writing this for me. I am writing this because I don’t know what else to do. I’m writing this because sometimes, for me, writing is a form of bloodletting, and I feel weaker but better afterward.
I am writing this but I don’t know where to start. I don’t want sympathy. Empathy, sure, maybe, if someone has been there. It’s a start. But it still won’t change things. Won’t help. I definitely don’t want pity. Good god, not that.
When I get here there’s a phony Kate that I have to push to the front. She smiles. She laughs. She asks questions and does the things she’s supposed to. Maybe she seems normal, but she doesn’t feel it. She feels like a cheap plastic imitation of me. Vacant. Vapid. She’s doing her best, don’t get me wrong. But she’s only covering. This isn’t her full-time job.
I am not sure what is going on. My medication is the same. I am depressed about some situational things, yes. I am depressed because three years ago, my body aged ten years in three months and it has not come back. I am depressed by the constant hot flashes, the night sweats, the muscle tension, the aches and pains, the forgetfulness, the thinning hair, the ache inside of me where I swear there was supposed to be a final child. (And for this last, I feel guilty, embarrassed. I have two beautiful children, what am I complaining about? I cannot explain the feeling that there is someone missing, that the two pregnancies I lost haunt me, that I am certain, somehow, we are meant to be a family of five – but I digress, and please don’t hate me for my greed.) The weather is soul-sucking. My house is a catastrophe. I miss my grandmother. And my Dad. I can’t remember the last time I slept through the night. I’ve had nausea and the jitters for the past two days. Nothing feels good, nothing feels right.
I don’t – if you don’t fight this battle, I’m not sure I can describe it for you. And I know my description will be only mine, because each person fights so differently. But if you can imagine a day when you are down, for no specific reason, just down, and then imagine that there is nothing that can make you feel better – that is a start. “Go shopping,” friends tell me, “get a massage.” “Self-care, meditate – want to go to the movies?” Oh, and my favorite, “Exercise!” When I’m well, there are things I love. Taking photographs, dancing, making mix CDs, organizing, socializing, learning. When I’m here, where I am now, none of that sounds a) appealing or b) worthwhile. There is not one thing I want to do at this minute. Even writing is a struggle – I am forcing myself, but I feel myself rambling and ready to quit at any moment. I’m not illuminating anything. I’m just prattling about nothing. And right now, this is my every day. My everyday.
I feel terrible that my kids are seeing this, this gray mother, not the mother they’re used to, not the mother they deserve. Will they remember these days? Will it ruin them? Motherhood is the only thing I’ve ever been truly good at. I can’t fail at that too.
I’m seeing a therapist tomorrow. A new therapist, he specializes in post-cancer care. It feels pointless, honestly, although I know from past experience it’s absolutely not. Now that I’ve typed this all out I feel no better and just want to delete it but it’s a window. And I know you can’t just see in windows, but also out. Here’s to seeing the sun soon.