Broken Doll

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.