But it wasn’t the kind that I could mope around about and
feel sorry for myself over. It was the “good
cancer”, with happy endings and minimal effort for recovery.
Not for me.
I got cancer, and it made me really sad, and I haven’t
gotten over that. Surgery has come and
gone, treatment has come and gone, but I feel a little empty after the whole
experience.
I don’t blame cancer, it’s not cancer’s fault I’m sad. I know the sadness has been there, dormant
for a long time now, suppressed pretty well, popping up here and there over the
years, but never enough for significant alarm.
Until now.
Now it’s so bad that it has to be fixed, and that’s the
scariest prospect ever. Because I know
that it’s not the pills that are going to make me better….or maybe it is. But pills scare me. So does depression.
There is so much I want to do that I’m not mentally or
emotionally able to do. I’m trying to
let go of my obsession to get it all in order and just get back to
writing. Writing always helped.
I HAD cancer.
Now I don’t.
Somewhere along that road I got really sad.
The hope: I see who I
am under all these depressing layers, but it’s going to take a lot of sorting.
