a post about writing...

Years ago, I used to (irregularly) write these irreverent, slice of life articles... based on nothing more than my casual observances of things around me. Primarily funny commentary about the weirdness of being young and single in DC.

After writing an article that I personally found witty and funny... and touching... I had a conversation with a male acquaintance about my dating habits and preferences. The subject matter of that article was based upon something that took place when I was out on a date. This particular gentleman brought up that article in response to a different article... one where I was (yet again) railing and questioning where my black love prospects lay.

To sum up his thoughts... he felt that I had put myself in a bad predicament by using my own life experiences as the subject matter of my articles. Especially, when these experiences included men that I dated. He felt that I was casting a spotlight on people who may not want to be that public. Though I didn't stop writing after that conversation, I did think more carefully about who I included in my articles from that point forward.

This conversation just popped into my head tonight as I was watching an episode of Sex and the City and wondered what on earth I was going to write about on my blog. I've shared so much of my very intimate thoughts and feelings here -- and now, as my thoughts turn a little darker from moment to moment -- I wonder whether or not I've gone too far in my sharing.

The past couple of weeks, I've been wondering whether I've shared too much of my intimate thoughts and feelings. Whether I've cast too harsh a glare on myself as I try to get through this process of dealing with having cancer.

Blogging, in the way that I have begun here, is helpful and scary. Its painful and healing at the same time. All of that to say... I'm scared to keep sharing so much of myself here. I don't know beforehand what I'm going to post, or how emotional it may be. I only know that there comes a moment when I feel like... its time to post something new. And then, I just let my fingers walk across the keyboard... in their own fashion.

I am fearful because I know that strangers read my blog -- though honestly, I can't understand why -- and I am fearful because I have no idea where I'm going, where I'll end up and how I'll weather the process. All I know... is that I want to be better. And I have to trust that what my doctors and nurses tell me to do... is what will get me there.

Today's post is really about being afraid. I am a classic procrastinator and when its possible, I will delay action and thoughts for a long time... I am often paralyzed by the "what if" thoughts. I can't procrastinate through this... so my fear is much more palatable than what I'm accustomed to dealing with. Everyday... I have to wake up and know... I have cancer. I can do this, this and this... and everything else, we have to let fall away. I'm having difficulty with the falling away part.

I have been angry (and hungry) lately. That's not new. My tongue hurts -- and it doesn't work so well either. I want to eat and drink but everything tastes like garbage really. So it feels like there's no point. I'm just... here. Sitting and stewing in my own funk about everything.

Someone said to me recently that my friends were afraid that dealing with cancer might send me back into a depression. I'm sure that its crossed the minds of some of my friends. Lord knows its wrapped itself around my neck more than one time. But the truth is that... getting depressed about my failing/ailing health... is probably part of the process as well. Depression is not a casual thing. It is not something easily dissipated like the blues... with a good banana split or something. It is a deep changing of your mental outlook on life. It takes time to start and time to stop -- if you can stop. It is different for everyone who deals with it.

I can say this. Today... I am not depressed. I am sad sometimes. I am frustrated a lot. I am achy and hungry and thirsty... man. But I am not depressed. I do not think of dying, or rather... of killing myself (or simply not existing anymore) the way that I did back then. But, I'd be a liar (and a bad one) if I didn't say that my thoughts get darker each day/week/month that goes by... and I still feel like crap. And I'm not so sure what to do about it.

I have a large envelope on my dresser. It contains the films from my mammograms -- the films that show Fred and his cronies from those early, confusing days of my diagnosis. I haven't looked at those films in weeks, maybe months. Not since they came back from NIH basically confirming for me that... yup, I have cancer and yup, its pretty advanced and uh huh... I'm going to have to lose my breast to save my life. Even though I haven't looked at them, I know what they are. And they represent a time of nearly blissful ignorance about what lie ahead.

They make me angry by their presence. But I know, or rather I feel, that they shouldn't. They should make me feel relieved a bit, if not happy. Because before I knew about the lump, I had no idea that I was a walking time bomb. I'm not sure why I'm sharing this tonight. I think its because I've been trying so hard... so very hard... to turn the damn corner on this thing. I am ready to be able to see the glass half full, instead of half empty. I want to see the blessings and the miracles that are around me... instead of the fears and the shadows.

I want to move on. But every time I try... I feel like I'm being a fraud, not being honest with myself. Can I be both scared and optimistic at the same time? Even though there are things I can't do, there are things that I can. And even within the realm of things I can't do -- most of those instances are relatively temporary meaning... I may not be able to do it today, but maybe 9 months from now I will be able to.

I'm pushing myself to see that end of the line perspective... rather than continue to sulk in the moments that make me sad.

What made me sad this week... was based on things that my mother did that normally would bring me so much joy. She baked sweet treats. :) Great right? Unless you can't taste them. Then its like torture.

My mom made monkey bread this weekend. She saw Paula Deen (I LOVE HER!!) on The View... and decided to make some monkey bread for the family. And then she decided two days later, to make apple pie.

I tasted the monkey bread and it was yummy. It was really tasty and (amazingly) I could actually taste it. I haven't been able to taste sweets for awhile (which is torture for me). My appetite however, was missing in action, so I only had about 5 little monkey balls (is that what we call them) over a period of time. My dad and my brother demolished them...

When she made the pie a couple of days later... I was in heaven from the smell. It was soooo yummy in the air. And then I cut a small slice and tasted... absolutely nothing. And it pissed me off so damn bad that I had tears in my eyes. I ate the whole slice but it could have been toast for all that I tasted. I could tell that there was butter, and I could tell that there was cinnamon (I could smell it) but I could not taste one bite. Not a nibble... not any. I don't think I would care if it was liver... but apple pie? Come on man. How unfair is that?

My dad and I love sweets. Love them, love them... love them. Last night, I took a trip through the pantry and tried nibbling on all sorts of things... just to (once again) see what worked and what didn't. Let's say... brownies, no. Canned fruit, nope. Hell, fresh grapes... no. And so forth. Raisins... something I eat by the handful when I need a quick pick me up... now just taste bitter and harsh. It feels like a punishment that has no purpose.

So you're probably wondering... she got sad because she couldn't eat pie? And honestly... as pitiful as it sounds... yeah. I got sad because my mom cooks just about everyday... and most days I chew and don't enjoy the food she's prepared and it makes me sad. When my dad was sick this summer... she cooked every day... a few times a day, to make sure that he ate. (he didn't eat in the hospital because the food was nasty) Now, I watch her cooking everyday for me and my dad... and I eat because I know she's trying to make sure that I'm healthy and getting enough nutrients... but it tastes awful most of the time and it often takes what little appetite I have... away.

I guess I'm sad because I don't want her to think I'm rejecting her. Just like I'm annoyed and frustrated that I can't do all the things I want to do because I don't want people to think that I don't care about them. I'm a little tired of focusing so much on myself... but at the same time, I have to focus on figuring out how to navigate through this madness.

I'm hungry. And my mom made a good dinner. I ate it. But I tasted nothing. I'm laying here in bed, trying to think what in the world can I eat right now that will satisfy this hunger? But the truth is that... there probably isn't anything I can eat that will help me ease this crazy feeling. But look... there's PIE in the fridge... HOMEMADE PIE... and I can't enjoy any of it.

What?? So freaking unfair. The half-full perspective is... I've lost nearly 20 pounds since chemo started. That's something right??