Anger, denial, blah, blah, blah...

I was having a good day.

The Filmmaker’s daughter, who is an art student of mine (that’s how we met) finished an absolutely beautiful painting she’s been working on. She was so happy with it, as was he and his son, as was I. Always makes me feel so accomplished and like I’m a rock star teacher when one of my kids – especially one of my favorite, most talented kids – does something awesome. And, of course, I got to spend a teeny, tiny bit of time with the Filmmaker, albeit at the studio with his kids and stuff, but it always makes me happy when I see him, no matter how short the time.

I came home, settled in for an evening of painting and catching up on stuff. I signed into my Barnes and Noble account because there was a book on breast cancer I saw last week and wanted to order. Not a warm, fuzzy, the universe will save you so be happy you have breast cancer kind of book. An actual workbook type of book that allows you to chart your treatment, make a list of questions, gives advice on what to ask your doctor, etc. My kind of book.

As I was sorting through the search results, I ran across a book for men about how to deal with the women in their lives who have breast cancer. Not just for husbands to deal with their wives, but for men in general, whether their wife, girlfriend, lover, friend, co-worker, whoever, has cancer. A way for them to figure out how to help the women in their lives going through this. I thought, hm, interesting. I wonder if maybe that would be something to get for the Filmmaker and maybe EE, the other guy who is on my caregiver list.

Then I noticed a plethora of books for husbands on how to help their wives deal with this whole thing.

And I thought, I’m not a wife. I don’t have a husband. I don’t really have a boyfriend. I have the Filmmaker, in whatever form our relationship is in. And he’s been really great and supportive and wonderful but…

But is he someone I would buy this book for and give to because what the hell are we doing anyway…

And then it hit me.

I have breast cancer.

It does this. Sneaks up on me and bitch-slaps me in the face and cripples me.

I have breast cancer.

Really.

Seriously.

Breast cancer.

I have it.

And that was followed shortly by…

Fuck.

I have breast cancer.

And the anger started.

I survived 16 years of an abusive relationship, rebuilt my life into something I love, surrounded by things I love and a job I love.

And now.

I have breast cancer.

I wanted to throw something across the room and scream at the top of my lungs. Why?! Why?! WHY?!

So cliché. And I try to avoid being cliché but there you go. I’m a cliché.

But I refuse to watch Dr. Phil and have him ask me “how’s that workin’ for ya?” when I try to figure out why I have breast cancer.

And tonight, I am consumed by anger.

Anger over my diagnosis.

Anger over how painfully slow my treatment – or lack thereof – is moving. Things went quickly at first but now I’m in a quagmire of bureaucratic bullshit that is the medical industry and I’m still two weeks away from even beginning to find out any information whatsoever about what the fuck is going on in my body. Anger over the panic I feel when I get these aches and pains in the area where the lumps are and the feeling of helplessness when that happens because I don’t know if it’s something normal, something serious or something my imagination is putting there.

Anger over the fact that I can’t afford to fix/register/run my car and I have to count on the people around me to care for me. Anger over the fact that I can’t just hop in my car and drive to the coffee shop and sit and sulk and write and brood. That I have to impose on the Filmmaker and our fragile relationship to be there for me, count on him to be there despite our situation being “casual” and “loose”. Anger over needing to need everyone around me when I’m not good at needing anyone at all.

Anger over needing period.

Anger over being alone. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know, lots of friends, blah, blah, blah. But basically, I’m still alone. I’m sitting at home tonight, alone, angry, wanting something, someone but having no one. Anger over being too angry to actually reach out to anyone right now because all I’m going to do is either cry or scream and I really don’t want to inflict that on anyone.

Anger over being alone. Really alone. What I want to do is to call the Filmmaker and say, come over, hold me, tell me it’ll be all right, tell me not to worry, let me cry, let me weep, and just hold me. That’s the one thing he can do that no one else can – hold me, kiss me, wrap me up in his strong, comforting arms. But I don’t/can’t/won’t because… well… because. I don’t want to force this to be anything more than it is and I’m angry because I feel like this situation is forcing me to want more from him than I wanted before. And I’m angry because there are so many reminders of him around my place already that it makes me want more, in a way that I didn’t before this diagnosis. And I’m angry because it makes me feel out of control of my feelings. I don’t want to need him, I don’t want to want him to be anything more than he is. But I’m here and I’m alone and all I can think about is how much I want him here, right now.

Anger over not being able to let myself call anyone to be here for me. Because it makes me feel weak. It makes me feel stupid. It makes me feel helpless. And, yes, I know it’s ridiculous but that’s what I feel. And I’m angry that I feel that way. Angry because my friends aren’t mind-readers and no one is going to show up at my door, tell me it’s going to be all right, etc., etc. Anger over how stupid all of this is.

Anger over the unknown. I don’t know what the hell is going on or what is going to go on or anything about anything about anything. School? I dunno. Work? Dunno. Filmmaker? Double dunno. Treatment? Really, truly, honestly dunno.

Anger over having to deal with all of this. I just don’t want to. I’ve gone through so much and I just don’t think I should have to go through any more of this. I just want the life I was building. Job I love. School I love. Learning to love someone again.

Fuck.

I have breast cancer.

And tonight, it’s pissing me off.