Little Miss Ungrateful

I haven't written for a while. I guess I thought I didn't have much to say. Or that what I did have to say, nobody would want to hear. You see, the excitement of IVF and chemotherapy and hair loss and cancer is over. Hopefully for good. What remains simply isn't as clickable. But it's real. And it's what I now live with day-to-day.

I'm seeing a psychologist. It started as a recommendation after my last cervix check because it seemed I wasn't coping with fear of relapse. After a couple of sessions though, what has come out is that I'm actually doing pretty well in that respect. I'm rational about the percentages and likelihood of recurrence. The episodes of tight chest, elevated heart rate and narrowed vision are becoming fewer and farther between. While I think about relapse often, I'm normally able to talk myself out of that heady-spiral quite quickly. What has stuck around though is what appears to be a heightened version of the same old body-image shit I struggled with long before cancer.

Looking back through old photos last night left me sad. Grieving. Self-depricating. Guilty. I think I had forgotten what I used to look like. How trying on clothes and feeling happy felt. How strong I was. How capable. How driven. I've posted a little comparison below so you can get an insight.

Sure, the 2016 photo was pre-thirties, I probably hadn't had breakfast yet and I was as thin as I've probably ever been. Plus, that bathroom lighting is on point. The 2018 photo is just after IVF and a couple of surgeries and right now I'm probably sitting somewhere in between. But that's not what really matters. It's how shitty I feel about myself. That I'm considering putting off a catch-up with my cousin because she suggested a swim and I don't want to show her what I look like. That's not ok.

I got off my ass this morning and went to the gym. I'd set a goal with my psychologist to get back into routine and to prove to myself that I was still capable of doing the things I used to enjoy. But then I came home, moped about for 6 hours and ate and ate and ate. And so the guilt begins again.

I know my body has been through a lot. Between those two photos is both Ross River Fever and Cervical Cancer. I know all of this rationally. I know I shouldn't be so hard on myself. I know that I should be grateful that I'm here. That I'm cancer-free. That I can walk up a flight of stairs without gasping for breath. That I can now lift my own groceries. But the fact is, none of that matters. I feel shit about myself and just because I've been through cancer, doesn't mean I'm going to be Little Miss Grateful all day everyday. Even if I thought I would be. Shit, that's probably one of the reasons I'm feeling guilty. I've put so much pressure on myself to love my body for getting me through. To treat it like a temple etc etc that now, I hate myself for hating myself. Great.

Today, my period is due and I can't stand the way my body looks and feels and it terrifies me that I don't even know if it's capable of getting back to how it used to look and feel. And because of that, I don't even know if I should try.

So, there it is. It's not as glamorous or inspiring as a an 'I shaved my head' or 'I'm cancer-free' post but it's real.