My ex boyfriend told me to “get the fuck over it and quit being a professional victim”. My oncologist’s nurse told me “this is the price we pay”. My brother chastised me for not wearing the proper undergarments. My coworker told me I was “kinda obsessed with it”. When I tell you that I think of cancer or have to deal with something as a direct result of the cancer every single day, I’m not exaggerating. Yesterday I stood on the porch and had family members blow smoke and vape all around me and I thought about the rattling in my chest. I bent over and the fluid left over in my chest shifted, giving my brain the urge to connect old nerve endings, was enough to have to pause and regroup. I had to spend a significant amount of time convincing myself that I don’t have a breast even though my brain was telling me I did. I used the restroom and had to breathe through the bladder spasms that happen every time I urinate now since my hysterectomy. I could go on and on. It isn’t over. It’s never over. I’m going to use very strong language and I do so with purpose and intention. Having been forcibly raped, I can say with absolute certainty that I feel like cancer is a predator that raped my soul. My rapist’s name is Kelley. This feels remarkably similar in emotion and mentality. There you have it. Do I have PTSD?… Are you fucking kidding me?
In other news, the Sun is hot.