Broken Doll

It felt like the PET scan was the only thing still standing between me and the edge of the cliff. There is this monster snapping at my heels and the choices I have left are jump or die. And I look over this precipice and have no way of knowing what obstacles I’ll hit on the way down or how badly damaged I’ll be once I hit bottom.

On the way down it robs me of my strength, my physical fitness, my hair, my sexuality and goddess I wonder what’s left that still even makes me human anymore. What will be left of me when all this is over? I’m losing myself.

Jump or die. What choice is there?

So I jump and fall and the world is dark and the mirror is dark and I cannot see, cannot see what lies ahead. The drugs sap my energy and I sleep for hours on end. My brain is foggy. I lose fine motor control in my hands. My eyes are tired. My mouth stings every time I eat. I panic daily that today will be the day when my hair starts to fall out in clumps and I’m not ready for that. I am afraid I will not be able to keep up. I’m afraid.

I’ve jumped. I’m falling.

I cried when they found the tumor. I held it in until I left but then fell apart.

Falling apart.

It’s already desexualizing me. Desire is buried under distraction, worry, fear, pain, exhaustion. Tests and more tests. I feel broken. I feel like it’s robbing me of so many parts of who I am.

Every night I stand in front of the mirror. I pull my hair back and try to visualize what it will look like when it’s all gone. Not feminine. Not female. Not human. I can’t quite see it. Can’t quite imagine it. And there’s fear and pain buried there in the not-seeing.

I cried to David: “This is supposed to be my body, not my enemy.“

It’s like this thing with limbs and skin and a thoroughly fucked-up lymphatic system doesn’t even belong to me anymore. It took itself away from me, saying it will do with itself as it likes and the hell with me.

The morning after the oncology exam I sat on my bed staring at my feet and didn’t recognize them as mine. They looked like someone else’s. My legs felt heavy and I walked without feeling the floor.

This is supposed to be my body, not my enemy.

I don’t want to be sick. I don’t want to lose my hair. I don’t want to be stared at. I don’t want to be pitied. I don’t want to be not-human.

And it’ll get worse before it gets better.