Some days it takes a very concerted effort not to completely unfold. It can be just plain exhausting working to tame the beast that is my emotions being toyed with by hormone injection and depletion by steroids. My brain becomes disconnected with reality and the highs get very high and the lows very low.
I am a live wire and I don’t know myself when I will lash out or who or what will take the brunt. The man clothes piled on top of, rather than in, the hamper? The RNC? The husband’s crusted cereal bowl that never made it the extra foot into the dishwasher? The sound of too many electronics going at once? The nail polish that smudges with fingerprints because of my lack of patience for drying?
It takes a tremendous amount of focused effort to keep myself stable as I ease off these steroids, handle the chemo drugs, and continue to process the trauma I’ve been through and the realties of the unknown ahead.
Most days I feel balanced and whole with only forward momentum. But some mornings bring with them a heavy weight, an incessant ringing in my ears of frustrations and questions, worries about the big things (my sister is driving across the country and my brother is getting married in two weeks, oh, and that cancer thing), worries about the stupid things (what necklace will I wear, organizing the pantry, fruit flies, which vitamin brand to take).
On the tough days, a blanket of angst shrouds and suffocates me so much that it can literally be hard to see through my eyes, which are so blearily exhausted from taking it all in.
Sometimes I just can’t shut it off and it makes me want to writhe and scream.
Instead, I do my best to breathe, let go, ride the wave and hope to hell that once I can push myself back out to the break point, the next wave will be a gentler ride in.