I started my day off at around 6am reading an article that has stuck with me since, and consequently resulted in my saying fuck in my head and outloud more than I thought possible – even for me. The point of it was about measuring your preferences and focus by number of “fucks given” and how what you give a fuck about says about you and your real direction, maturity etc. It highlighted for me that I don’t give a fuck about what I should, and give a few fucks about things I probably shouldn’t. Also, that I’m giving less fucks in general all the time.
What do I give a fuck about? Getting fat. I’m getting fat. After being in surgical menopause I’m on hormone replacement shit and it’s bad. Whoever the fuck said this would be easy? No one. Ever.
I give a fuck about the weird scar and swelling I have in my pelvic region now after the abscess and infection. Its fucking weird looking and not attractive. I give a fuck about not being attractive. I hate that.
I give a fuck about the fucking car I drive, and won’t drive a piece of shit Chevy, motherfuckers. I will drive a Subaru, even if it’s got 200,000 miles and is a rust hole. I don’t know what that even is, but I’d drive the shit out of it anyway. No. Fucking. Chevy’s. Bitches.
Apparently I’m losing my mind, wits, marbles – whatever. I lost things, let’s put it that way. And I can’t seem to find them. To be quite honest, I’m not sure where to look and I’ve procrastinated a bit. Okay, I haven’t looked.
My brain isn’t working, I cannot make myself do things I don’t like and I much prefer altered states of consciousness. Not conducive to my life and it’s not working out well. I seem to recently have these new rules for myself that are quite limiting. For example, I’m not allowed to leave the house after dark on a weeknight. It’s bad. This restricts movie watching at a theatre. And I must have the option of being in bed by 9:30, never mind the fact that rarely happens. No phone conversations after work. Or at work. They’re exhausting. Absolutely no doing anything different. Nope, not me. I will do the same goddamn things until my tracks are so ingrained I can’t see out of them. Ask me why? I have no idea. I know better, and chose less. Maybe removing body parts will make things different. Maybe they’ll find my wits in there, and they’ve just been hiding in my uterus. I wouldn’t blame them, it’s nice, dark and warm.
I wish I had something really smart to say about all this. I got nothin’. It’s been around 6 months since I’ve written anything on this blog, mostly because I forgot about it. Today I remembered, wishing I had someone to talk at, that would just listen and nod in agreement. Here we are, you and I, go ahead and nod away.
Many endings and changes since December: my relationship ending, kids moving out, sanity gone. Not much would ever surprise me , or so I thought. Then I found a cyst and my right ovary, had it removed in April. Doctors determined it was ovarian cancer, stage 1. I’ll be going back in two weeks from today to have all the rest taken out, including my appendix. Then chemo for a bit. I’ll be in menopause and require HRT.
It’s an odd thing, having cancer. It’s exactly what you think it would be like – full of denial, resistance, disbelief and all that, and I don’t have anything major, really. Just need to do a clean sweep and I should be okay…fingers crossed. It makes you ask a lot of existential questions; tease the unimportant from the truly valuable, and examine what control you do or don’t have. It’s exhausting. And enlightening. I’ve decided I really want to be happy. I REALLY WANT TO BE HAPPY! Did you hear me? And I’m not. I don’t think I ever have been. Most of what I do, most of the time, is not making me happy. I know all the bull shit about choices, and focus and gratitude – I’m a fucking therapist for Christ’s sake. But really, it takes doing something different, not just changing your self talk. That’s where I am now, anyway. I’m sure it will change. My intent is to write about it for a while and see where I go.