So I’m angry…and is that okay?

You know fucking what? I can wax philosophical about my change, I can dream about a different era, and I can (try to be) be a different person. But I will never lose my anger.

I won’t drop it until I’ve confronted it.

And I’m angry.

Ask anyone who’s met me. Look at my entitlement, look at my self-loathing, look at my derision. I’m an angry-ass bitch.

Though, who could really fault me- after growing up in such a hate-filled household? After having to hide the food I ate? The clothes I wore? The belt marks on my back? The loss of my childhood that I felt so clearly in 1998 (for starters)? I grew up in a pretty literal hellscape- one that ultimately led me to drag a mother out of it. But it took begging and pleading. And it took life-threatening actions.

So yeah. I’m an angry person. I have a lot of resentments. I take a lot of things personally.

I try not to do this anymore, because I understand that the things I take personally are a direct result of my fear of acceptance. I didn’t get that acceptance growing up. No one told me that I was ‘good enough, smart enough, and doggone it people liked me’. That was never a thing. I was always better than someone (because I could swim or run faster), or I was a piece of shit (because I couldn’t swim/run faster). I wasn’t smart enough. I didn’t memorize this monologue quickly enough. I didn’t do what you wanted me to do well enough.

I was not enough.

And now I have to be enough for myself.

And that’s really fucking confusing.

I think most people learn this as they’re growing up. They are part of a “normal” family; one that fosters growth, independence, and acceptance. Most people turn out okay. But not my family. And I shouldn’t harp on this, but it is a part of who I am and it will never go away. I will always flinch when someone moves quickly around me. Always.

So I’m angry about that. And after doing my inventory, I’m angry about the way that the treatment has affected me as an adult. So now I’m angry at a few people. It’s fostered selfishness in me. It’s made me lie. It’s made me afraid to be myself. I’ve let that shit make me terrified of who I might actually be, and that’s the saddest thing…thinking about who I could be.

March 25th (or thereabouts)- I was diagnosed with cancer. I chose to forego reconstruction. I opted in for drugs that destroyed my body. I let people inject me with  serums that put me into early menopause…before I was 30. I cried and writhed around in pain, I hurt people, I hurt myself, I lost my relationship. I voluntarily let people shoot me with lasers…

And I’m angry about this. So angry. I am angry about the fact that this happened to me. I am angry about the fact that my partner found it after five years of false alarms. I am angry that someone said they would be jealous of me having no tits. I am angry that someone said ‘cancer is a fun adventure’. I am angry that I lost a part of my body that people equate to attractiveness. I am angry that I will never look like an “ideal woman”. I am angry that I have lost all of my hair. I am angry that I look the way that I do. I am angry that I still have to drive to Fridley for radiation every morning and that I am always 30 minutes early because I’m an insane person who has no concept of time. I’m just so angry. About everything.

But living with anger is so time-consuming and, frankly, painful. I know that I can’t make this go away over-night, and I know that it might still rear its ugly head no matter what sort of serenity I might obtain. I know that I have said ‘if not me, then who’. I agree with that. I do know that I can only affect change where I am able- and this seems to be only in myself and the air in my tires. I can’t do anything more, and trying to do so is futile and (probably) harmful. It’s my body, and I should own it and love it. I don’t know how to deal with all these feelings, but I can take comfort in the fact that I don’t have to do it alone.

 


A special thank you to those that have been there: I know I am irrational and insane, but I appreciate you for sticking with me. Who would we be if we didn’t have our friends?