I’m done being the victim of my life.
Have shitty things happened? Is my anger and hurt justified? Yeah.
But holding onto both of those things makes this life pretty un-fun, so I’m trying something new.
I’m not a victim. Will I have bad days? Will I have days ahead where I feel sorry for myself again? Yes probably. And I will feel the feelings, and move on when they’ve been processed. Move on, as in live. Pick up an opera score, watch Joyce Didonato saaaaang, listen to Berlioz, run/walk on the treadmill, hug the dog, hug the mom, laugh with friends, smoke some pot (goes nice with laughing with friends), eat. Live.
I am not a victim.
I’m not sad or helpless. I’m PISSED. And I’m going to allow that anger to help me on days where helplessness starts to creep in.
I cut my own hair off this afternoon. It was gathering in delicate handfuls in my hands all morning and I decided, “not today, cancer.”My golden shield of protection is gone now. My mom told me to wait til my appointment with the wig woman on Saturday but I needed to reclaim some power in my life. Two inches now remain on my head.
You don’t get any more of me, cancer.
I am not what’s “happened to me”. I am Amy. And I’m figuring out just what that means.
I had a rough rough weekend. Was ready to give up on chemo, was ready to give up on life. Thanks to Ativan and pot, I made it to Monday night, last night, where I had the pinch-me privilege of seeing and hearing Joyce Didonato (operatic legend) sing at Kodak Hall. My mom bought the tickets a couple weeks ago. And it came at the perfect time. Joyce’s dedication to her craft reminded me that music is a part of my core. It’s visceral. It’s authentic. It’s undeniable. My connection to it makes my life richer. And I’ve been avoiding it for the last several months because I’ve been afraid to attach myself to this life in any positive way for fear that it will make it more painful when it’s actually my time to go. But to deny myself the sheer joy of listening to Stravinsky or Debussy to try to soften the blow of my inevitable passing (not from cancer, just death in general) is actually just crazy and sad.
So today, as I jog/walked on my treadmill, I listed to Berlioz’s “Le nuits d’été”.
And then I cut my hair off.
Today I won.