The year that wasn't.

I can't believe it was two years ago that you kissed me and started the best year of my life. And the worst year of my life.

And I can't figure out how to move on.

When I look back, it feels like there is a year that wasn't. 

You kissed me. It was perfect. And I could see something. And it was great.

And then six months later, it wasn't perfect. It was awful. And I began to lose everything. 

And then you were gone. Partly me, partly you. But you were gone. And it was the year that was. And it was the most amazing year of my life. Some days, I almost wish I had never had that year with you because it showed me what could be. And you got me through the worst. 

And that overlapped with the year that wasn't.

I can't believe it's been a year since I told you good-bye and two years since you kissed me.

Where did that year in between go?

Chemo. Radiation. Death. Pain. Recovery. Heart problems. Struggling to get back.

And that year is a void. 

Where did it go? How do I get it back? 

I can't.

I can't get it back.

I can't get you back.

And I can't seem to move forward yet.

Because I can't accept that a year just vanished.

I don't know how those who have it worse get through. I don't know how they go forward.

Because I just can't seem to.

But I don't want another year to go by and still be missing you and missing that year and wondering where this year went. 

I need to move.

I need to move.

I need...

I need to find another year and forget that we had that one. And maybe hope that there is someone out there that will make me forget that year and give me years and years to remember.

Love letter

I will write
the love letter
filled with my heart
and my soul,
words said and
words unsaid and
words that should have been said
last night.
All the truth,
all the fear,
all the all.
And I will seal it up
inside my heart
probably never to see
the light of day.
And I wonder
if you will ever find it,
ever care
to even look?

I get to choose

One thing I learned from dealing with cancer is that I get to choose. I get to choose how to deal with things, I get to choose if I even want to deal with things. I get to choose whether to wallow or whether to let things go. Sometimes you have to do both. Not at the same time, though. That'd be weird.

I find myself once again in the center of change. Good change, mostly. I have become the program director at my art studio where I've been teaching for the past almost six years. Which means I'm in charge. Which is a bit scary. I haven't been in charge of anything but me for the past eight years. But it means financial security, stability and all those things.

And as always, I've been struggling to adjust to the new schedule. More hours at the studio, complicated by having to take the bus. Suddenly, my own time is cut short. I'm beat when I get home because my body is still in recovery from treatment. And I find myself depressed because I'm so tired and I can't get to do what I want to do. Pout, stamping feet, temper tantrum.

And the Filmmaker has pulled away. Avoiding me. Obviously doesn't want to see me right now, for whatever reason. More pouting, more stamping of feet.

But this morning, I remembered - I get to choose. I get to choose how I handle all of this.

And this is what I choose.

1. You, my dearet Filmmaker. My heart. My soul. The one I would give everything for to find you at my doorstep, telling me I'm your heart and your soul. But obviously, that's not going to happen. And while that's difficult for me to accept because I still feel you in the depth of my heart and my soul, in those unguarded moments when you let yourself think about me, I am choosing to let you go. I won't chase you anymore. I won't shed any more tears over you. Maybe this is moot because maybe you've already left me in your wake. But now it's time for me to leave you in mine. I will never forget or regret a single moment with you because you gave me so much. But, my love, my heart, good-bye.

2. I choose not to get overwhelmed. I am still in recovery and I am still struggling physically to get through these new challenging days and the demands of the new position. But I love this job and I'm thrilled to finally be here. So I choose to make it work without giving in. I will draw boundaries when I can so I don't wear myself out. I choose to enjoy the new opportunities, not get swallowed by them.

3. I choose to not be afraid. I'm been very afraid for the last year and a half, for some very good reasons. But now, I'm choosing to leave the fear behind. It's only going to hold me back. So whether it's fear of this new position and if I can handle it, or fear of really truly losing the Filmmaker, or fear of reaching out to the couple of new guys who maybe kinda dig me, I choose to banish the fear and charge headlong into the breech. Choose to put my heart out there again to maybe find someone to bring new memories and new beautiful moments to my life. Choosing to walk away from the fear.

4. I choose to get my life back. Taking over my studio is one step in that direction. It will give me stability, it will give me consistency, especially financially. But creatively, I also need to get back to my other love - directing. I haven't really directed in almost two years. And now I want to really get back into it. I have someone who may be willing to go along for the ride, so I'm hoping it'll work out. My life isn't complete without directing, as much as my art consumes me. I still ned that other side to be filled.

5. I choose to remember I am human. And to set boundaries. And not feel like a failure because my body is only about 60% of what it was. I choose to build it back up, but I know it'll take a while.

6. I choose to be happy. Peaceful. I've spent so much time in the dark in the past year and a half, despite the love and beauty around me. But losing a year of my life, and losing my parents, and losing my heart, all that left me empty and hollow and devastated. So now, I am choosing to get back to happy. Or peaceful. Or something a lot less suicidal and morbid. Maybe not sunshine and puppies, because that's never been me. But something more like cigar and whiskey. Cuz that's more me.

7. I choose to tell people I love that I love them. There may never been another chance.

8. I choose life.

So with all the thoughts of choosing, it also makes me make a list of what I want over the next year or so, as I get my life back.

1. I want to make two movies - The Wraith of Love and almost. Both are deeply personal, both are so different, but both are what I want to do.

2. I want to fall in love again. The Filmmaker showed me the world of possibility that real, good, solid, grown-up love can bring. And I want that again. Create new memories. Create a new life. Maybe find something more, something longer, something deeper. But I want that again.

3. I want to get my car back. I miss my sexy Bette and her ragtop.

4. I want to travel somewhere wild and exotic. More than Monterey or New York. Somewhere like China or London or Australia. Somewhere wondrous. By myself or with someone I love. I don't care.

5. I want... so much...

Funny that it took cancer to show me I had control of my life and that I can choose how I build it and make it work. So I need to remember that - I get to choose.

Now if only I can choose wisely...

You

You're fading.

You're choosing to fade, just like the others.

I shouldn't be surprised.

But I am.

I wish I had said.

I wish I had done.

I wish.

I'll wish
as you fade

away.

I just don't know

I don’t know what to do.

I can’t stop thinking about you. It’s been almost a year. And every time I see you, I wish…

I don’t know how you feel. I just don’t know.

I want to say, take me back. I want to say, I just want to be with you again.

But I want you to say that to me. Because I don’t know how you feel.

And I think you probably don’t feel the same way.

And I don’t know what to do.

I’m not sorry I walked away from you, because I had to at that point. And I don’t know if I can go back to that again. I still want just that little bit more. And I don’t know if you could give me that now.

And I feel like there’s been enough from you to give me hope that maybe…

But I don’t know.

And I just sit here, and I can’t stop thinking about you.

And I just don’t know what to do.

Done

Dark night.

Darker thoughts.

And tonight, there are enough pills in the place.

More than enough.

Just have to get to morning.

Just not sure if I can.

"Wraith of Love" graphic novel goes live

Well, I did it.

I have launched an online graphic novel, "Wraith of Love". wraithoflove.com

A new page will be posted every week, if I can actually manage to do this.

So check it out. See what you think. Let me know what you think. Share, post, tweet, enjoy.

It's simple

It's simple.
It's you.
It's just you
that I want.
That simple.
And since that recent night
when it felt like it was
and you kissed me like 
you used to
it's become that simple.
It's you
that I want.
And when I sit next to you
and we're so close
and so comfortable
and so 
what brought us together
and yet
and yet
and yet
I cannot have you
I cannot kiss you
I cannot wake up with you
I cannot bear it
anymore
If you hadn't 
on that recent night
been so much of what we were
I might have been able to
just let go
and go on 
and let go.
But now
all I can think is
it's simple
I just want you.

And since I can't have you
I guess
I'll have to say good-bye.
For real, this time.
Because it's simple.
I just want you.

"almost" is live

So I decided to take a recent screenplay and turn it into an online novel. Weekly, a new chapter will be released, with the goal to publish an ebook with illustrations at the end of it.

Check it out and let me know what you think:

http://almostnovel.wordpress.com/

Emotional rescue

I’ve been rearranging my apartment this week because it’s cluttered and crowded and it needs it.

I moved my art table over to where I can sit at it and see the TV and where my back isn’t to the room. And my computer is part of that area and it all works very well. Made me very happy because my apartment has been chaos since I moved in. Never quite got it to where I wanted it to be. So I’m working on that.

I pulled out the vacuum to clean up the area where the table was because, well, it hasn’t really be vacuumed well since…

August 2, 2012.

The night I shaved my head.

A stupid vacuum brought me back there because suddenly, I could see the Filmmaker so carefully cleaning up all the hair we’d shaved off. Humming and sweet. And Tracy, making me laugh, keeping me entertained. And the Filmmaker, vacuuming, making sure he got every chunk of hair on the floor.

I didn’t cry much that night because there was so much love in the air. Tracy brought a ridiculous wig. And the Filmmaker… what can I say about him that I haven’t already said?

I don’t think I comprehended the loss then. I don’t think I could feel it then because it was so big. I was almost numb because so much had happened and so much was yet to happen. I cried a bit but Tracy and the Filmmaker made sure I felt only laughter and love that night.

But tonight, I feel everything I didn’t feel that night.

Because I’m on the other side of it. And I can see the trail of loss left behind.

And I know it’s part of moving on and moving past. Of letting go. Of releasing the pain into the universe for the universe to send it “to the trees”, as my friend’s baby girl says about things she wants to go away. “Send it to the trees”.

My hair has grown back quite nicely. And even as it was growing back, everyone said the gray suited me and commented on how great it looked. And I colored it back to black, just so I can feel like myself. And I look in the mirror now and I don’t see a cancer patient or even a cancer survivor. I see me. And that’s where I want to be – where I see me.

But for tonight, all I can see is that night. That moment when the Filmmaker cleaned up my hair. When a big part of me was taken away and left on the floor, to be sucked up into the vacuum bag. And which is probably still in the vacuum bag. I’ve never been a great housekeeper and am now just getting the energy back enough to clean on a regular basis.

I still have the little sprig of hair, the last piece the Filmmaker shaved off that night. He jokingly shaved it down to that little sprig and then hunted for a piece of ribbon and tied that ribbon to that sprig before he shaved it off. That lives in a little box on my shelf.

And then he vacuumed up the rest of my hair.

I know this probably doesn’t make sense but all I can see right now is him and the vacuum and my hair.

And all I can feel is the loss again – the loss of my life for almost a year, the loss of him and his beautiful everything that he was to me, the loss of so many things.

And I guess the only way to get through the loss is to grab the fucking vacuum and suck up the memory and let it go to the trees. And hang on to the good memories of that night – the love and the care and the beauty of that one sprig of hair left over. And just move through that night and leave it in the past, and tackle the next memory that bitch slaps me and brings me to my knees.

I do know that eventually, those memories won’t have any power. They will live in a past where I can see them with clarity and without excruciating pain.

But not tonight. Tonight, I will remember…

Pssssst....

I still miss you.

I know I shouldn’t.

I should be over you.

But I’m not.

I miss you at weird times – mostly in the morning when I get up. I miss waking up to you, in your big, warm bed, in your big, warm arms.

I was getting over you.

And then you came by that night.

And you gave me hope with that last kiss. And with your hand on my thigh.

And I started to miss you.

Again.

And I think you miss me, otherwise why would you come by?

But we were both too afraid to do anything but miss.

And if you come by again, I don’t know that I could stop myself from doing what I wanted to do so badly that night.

Because…

I still miss you.

I miss her

I finally found the words, two weeks after my mother died.

I miss her.

Not the her that she was at the end, where we couldn't talk for more than a minute or two on the phone and where she was really starting to lose herself. Not the her that she was the last time I saw her, disjointed and mean, slapping me across the face in a drunken stupor. Not the her that looked at me with lost eyes, wondering what was going on inside of her.

I miss the her that was my mother. 

It makes sense that I couldn't find words for her because she was a difficult, complicated and screwed up woman. She could cut me to the core and then do something that lifted me up to the clouds. She had a scalpel that could go to the direct center of my heart and cut me so deep, yet she could be so gentle and kind once she put that down.

My mother had a difficult life before she was my mother. Alcoholic father, hinted at abuse. Well, maybe not hinted. She talked about her mother hitting her across the head with a broomstick at one point, possibly being responsible for the damage to her eardrums discovered years later. She ended up taking her own mother out of the situation and being responsible for her family before she was really old enough to be responsible for a whole family. 

And she had a difficult life with us. She didn't sign up to have all the troubles she had with my brother (won't get into them here because, believe it or not, some things should stay out of the public record). Or the challenge that is my sister, who is a carbon copy of my mother. Or having a husband who went through double bypass heart surgery at 48 and spent the rest of his life battling life-threatening heart problems. And me, with whatever issues I brought to the table - two marriages, never having a real job, being the nomadic artist that I am.

It's no wonder that she was kind of batshit crazy so much of the time.

I also think she struggled with mental illness but would never admit it and would never explore it. I would say she had bipolar tendencies and she had epic highs and deep black lows. In that way, I am my mother's daughter - and that scares the shit out of me. 

I guess I'm still struggling for words. It's easy to talk about the surface of who she was but it's not easy talking about what was under that.

I miss the mother I remember from my 20's, I think. The mother that laughed easily. The mother that teased without the scalpel in her hand. The bright, vibrant mother who liked to lay out in the sun, slathered in tanning oil, and who smoked like a chimney. The mother that always had something going on - Avon, Tupperware, on top of her regular job and her family. 

And I miss the mother from my young childhood. The one who always had some craft thingy for us to do. I guess I never gave her credit for nurturing the artist in me when I was that young. We made moonscapes out of melted wax, pie tins and cold water. Ceramics. She taught me to knit as soon as I could hold the needles. In elementary school, I remember having knitting needles sticking out of the little hole that used to be an inkwell. 

I miss the mother who made fudge in the kitchen so very often. Nothing brings me back to my mother like making fudge. Hours of memories in the kitchen, watching that brown liquid bubble and boil, the smell of sugar and chocolate, the concentration on her face and the pleasure when it was all done and we were sharing the remainder of the fudge straight from the hot pot.

I miss the mother who looked at me when I said I wanted to move to LA after my first divorce and just said, yes. The one who handed me her credit card the day I left and who cried a river as I drove away.

I miss the mother who took me in with open arms when my second marriage turned so ugly and awful. Who never said a bad word about my ex-husband and always treated him with kindness and dignity when we were together and continued to speak of him with kindness and dignity afterward. She would always say, "It's just him, it's just R and how he is". 

I miss the mother who tried so hard to understand me, her nomadic artist. The agoraphobic who came to my plays anyway. Who would give me blank checks to cover whatever artistic endeavor I was pursuing. Who didn't understand me so she did what she knew how to do - hand me a check and say, do your thing.

She was not affectionate and I don't ever recall hearing or saying "I love you". It was just not in her nature. Yet I remember her sitting on the couch, rubbing my back gently while we watched movies or I did homework. And the affection she had for my father more than made up for her inability to express her affection to us. There was never a moment where I doubted how she felt about him. He was her life, despite the separation at one point and the fights (oh, my god, the epic fights) and everything that went with their sometimes volatile marriage. But with him, as with all of us, she was always there and would never leave.

The past few years, as her mind started to lose its grip on itself, we talked less and less. We used to talk at least once a week, even when she was living here. If I couldn't get down to see her in Long Beach, we at least would talk. But once she moved to Minnesota and her health started to decline, it got harder and harder to talk to her. She couldn't hold on to a thought for too long and I think it got harder and harder for her. And when I went home last year, it broke my heart to see both of them so fragile and so broken. They were not the parents I remembered. They were both shells of themselves.

And even then, I missed the mother I remembered.

My mother was so much - difficult, devoted, ferocious and stubborn as a weasel, hard-working, angry, funny, broken, dedicated, determined, driven, generous to a fault. So many things, so hard to describe.

So I guess the only way to describe her is this.

She was my mother.

And I miss her so very, very much in so many, many ways.

Desperately Seeking Susan

I dyed my hair tonight.

Doesn't sound like a big deal but it was.

Since finishing chemo and radiation, my hair has been growing back in quite nicely.

And quite grayly.




When I see myself in photographs, I don't like the way I look because the silver hair looks so foreign to me. I thought I would get used to it. 

But I'm not.

I hate it.

I hate it because I didn't get to choose it. Cancer forced it on me when I had to shave my head after chemo. 

And while everyone loves how the silver looks - and I get it, it does look pretty good - it will never look good to me because I didn't get to choose it.

I realized it the other day when I was at my art class for work. One of the teachers who I haven't seen in a while came in and the first thing she said was how much she loved my hair. And I almost burst into tears.

And the more I thought about it, the more I realized I will never like this hair. Not right now. Maybe if I decide to let it go silver again, I will. But right now, I hate it.

Actually, I think what started it was that I found a box of hair color in my cupboard the other day when I was looking for something else. That made me break down and cry because the last time I colored my hair was maybe June, 2012 because I started chemo in July, 2012. And this box was left over from then. 

From when I was still me.

Last night, I sat on the couch and thought about that box of hair color. 

And this morning, I woke up and when I looked at myself in the mirror, I burst into tears because all of the above came crashing in on me. I don't know that woman with the silver hair looking back at me from my mirror.

So I opened the box when I got home tonight and started.

And I cried every step of the way. 

Cried for what I've lost.

Cried for who I was.

Cried for everything I've gone through.

Cried because... Just because.

And I'm not sure I'm done with the tears yet.

But maybe tomorrow, when I get up and go to teach, that face looking back at me in the mirror might look a little more like the me I was before March 9, 2012. Maybe I can let go of some of this and leave it behind if I'm not constantly reminded of what I've been through due to the color of my hair. Maybe I can really begin to find me again and move forward, toward normal, whatever that means.

But at least tonight, I took a bit of control. We'll see where that leads me...

I'm still here

Madame H drove me home from my birthday party on Saturday (birthday is actually today) and when she dropped me off, she said something that made me stop and think.

She said something like, "You got another birthday."

I got another birthday.

And I came home and sat down and cried.

Because I'm still here.

Battered and a little worse for wear. Tonight, my left shoulder/neck/clavicle hurt so much I can barely type this.

But I'm still here.

I'm lonely and I'm still missing the Filmmaker terribly, though we see each other now and then, which is nice.

And I'm still here.

I'm missing my dad today because a year ago, I was home and that was the last time I saw him.

But I'm still here.

And cancer didn't kill me. Luckily, it was caught early. 

And treatment didn't kill me, though it felt like it would at times. It still does feel like it will, even now.

But I'm still here.

And I got to have another birthday. And I will get to have another one next year, and the year after that, and the year after that.

And I'm grateful for the love and support for this last year, because without it, I truly think I would not have made it. The friends who showed me love in a million tiny ways. And in huge, amazing, epic ways. For having the Filmmaker there at the beginning, when I didn't know how I was going to get through each day. And for his... everything.

And I'm still here.

And I'm starting to feel like life is moving forward, in teeny baby steps, but moving. At last. And I'm finally starting to think about summer and Comic-Con, although I still don't know if I'm going. And thinking about my graphic novel and getting it out  into the world. And thinking about making another film. And what I'm going to direct next. And...

And I'm still here.

And I'm starting to think about where I'll be at my next birthday. Because now I can finally see a future. And I'm thinking about the fact that I want to let someone else in again. I learned a lot with the Filmmaker and since he's not going to surprise me, I need to look forward to someone else. Someone who will be more of what I want/need.

Because I'm still here.

And I am going to be here for a very, very long time.

We have nothing to fear but... fear...

I went to the WeSPARK post-treatment support group this week because I've been feeling lost and out of sorts and very, extremely depressed and decided I needed to get some help and guidance.

As I was on the bus to the group, I got thinking about what I was going to talk about. I haven't been able to go because of the new job and wanted to be able to summarize the last couple of months fairly quickly so as to not take up too much time.

As I was thinking about how I was feeling, I realized something.

I'm afraid.

Of course I'm afraid my cancer will come back, first and foremost. I mean, who wouldn't be? And I wish  I could not take this hormone suppressor because it is making me very depressed and incredibly moody. So depressed that I can't get off the couch.

But...

I realized I'm also afraid of moving forward.

Before I was diagnosed, I felt like I had almost everything I wanted. My teaching job was going very well and I felt optimistic that I would get my studio within a year or so. School was amazing - being able to go and paint for four straight hours, straight A's, learning so much it was incredible.  And, of course, the Filmmaker. Fun, easy days and lovely, sensuous nights with him.

Perfection.

And then...

Invasive Ductal Carcinoma.

And now it's all pretty much gone, except my teaching job. 

Now, who knows what would have happened had I not been diagnosed. I would have lost my father either way. The Filmmaker and I may not have lasted anyway. School, I'm pretty sure, would have still be straight A's because I wouldn't allow anything else.

But now, as I try to put my life back together, I realize that I'm really afraid to do just that - put my life back together.

Because what if I do...

...and the cancer comes back.

What if I build back up this life that I love and find another man who is just as wonderful as the Filmmaker was and what if I fall in love with him and get my own studio and go back to school and my life finally starts to make sense again and...

....what if...

That terrifies me.

Partly because I don't want to build everything up just to lose it again.

And a lot because I don't know if I could go through all of this again. I'm so moved and humbled by my friend who has gone through cancer treatment numerous times and is currently on borrowed time. She is so brave and funny and snarky while at the same time being incredibly vulnerable and honest. I don't know how she does it. I don't know how her husband does it. He, as well, humbles me and inspires me by his sheer devotion to her and to making her life the best life it can be.

I don't want to do this again. And I'm terrified that I will have to.

My risk is fairly low due to the size of my tumor and the fact that I had chemo and radiation and I'm on this stupid fucking crazy-making drug. However, the risk is still there and it's still very real. And cancer's a sneaky motherfucker. With having lymph node involvement and ER/PR positive, there is still a risk of recurrence.

And I'm so terrified right now of it coming back again just as I get my life together - again. 

And I've rebuilt my life so very many times over the past 30 years, I'd like to not have to do that again for the next 30.

And I don't know if I could do it again. 

I was very lucky with my diagnosis. Caught early, small tumor, only a couple of lymph nodes. Very quick recovery, according to my doctors. After all, I am my father's daughter and have genes of steel. I was able to keep my breasts and even my scars are starting to recede and get less and less obvious. And my hair's grown back into this punky rock star style that has people asking me how I got my hair to look that way. Chemo is always a quippy, snarky answer that shuts them up.

And I got through treatment fairly well.

But if it comes back...

If it comes back...

I'll go through it again and I'll survive and I'll rebuild and I'll do what I need to do. Because what choice would there be?

But I'm so afraid to start moving forward in case I get knocked back. I don't want to lose everything again. I just don't.

So I have to get past this fear and keeping going. But it's hard. And the depression doesn't help. Hopefully I'll get some help on that end very soon.

But still...

What if...

But I can't live by "what if" and I have to move forward.

I'm just...

...stuck right now.

We'll see what next week brings...

What I learned from you

I learned to laugh even more than I ever have before.

I learned to be quiet without being afraid of not being heard.

I learned to be heard.

I learned to listen and accept.

I learned that I can be open and honest and not be punished for it.

I learned that someone I love can be gentle and kind and compassionate with me.

I learned that anger is not a normal part of a relationship.

I learned that I am worth something.

I learned how to just be with someone.

I learned to not write your story and to not try to figure out what you're going to do and do emotional algebra with every little thing.

I learned what true intimacy is by just laying in your arms.

I learned about passion. Boy, did I learn about passion. In everything.

I learned how to exist for right now, just in this second, in that moment with you. Every single moment.

I learned that I am good at... well... certain things.

I learned that I like being sexy and dressing like a girl and I learned I liked the way you looked at me when I dressed that way.

I learned to open my heart up again after so many years of being closed.

I learned that, while living in the moment with you was incredible, that I need a bit more. 

I learned that I can make the choices I need to make when it comes to protecting myself.

I learned that I can break my own heart and survive.

I'm learning how to let you back into my life, without hope, without agenda.

I learned that I can be myself when I'm with someone, that I don't have to be anything but me. And that's enough.

I learned that when someone listens to me and cares about me and lets me be heard, I don't need to make as much noise.

I learned that there are beautiful, amazing, incredible men out there who don't use their love as a weapon.

The most important thing I learned is to let you go...

Made it through... ?

Almost two months after finishing treatment, I'm really starting to comprehend what I went through.

Two surgeries.

Five months of chemo

Eight weeks of radiation.

Losing my father.

Ending a relationship.

Starting a new drug for the next five years.

And I'm here.

I don't know how I got here.

Going through treatment, especially chemo, I just put my head down and got through it because I didn't know what else to do. You don't really have a choice. Chemo or let the cancer come back and grow.

Walking to the bus stop the past few days,  I was thinking about how during chemo I almost couldn't make that two block walk. I would have to stop and rest after a block. And just climbing up the stairs to my apartment, I would have to stop and rest. Days and days and weeks and weeks of not being able to get off the couch. I made myself try to live as normal a life as possible. I was very grateful to have the Filmmaker there and it helped me find energy to know he would be on the other end of the bus route when I got there and that he would take care of me. But looking back, I don't know how I did it. How I survived.

There were days through chemo and especially the end of radiation where I just wanted to stop. Just stop. Didn't care about the future because the present was just so fucking hard. 

I don't know how I got through radiation, especially the end when my collarbone was burned and blistered and so incredibly painful, I couldn't sleep, I couldn't sit, I couldn't do much of anything. The wonderful Dan Panosian, one of my comic book mentors, saw me at Drink and Draw as I was at the end of radiation and was so happy to see me, he grabbed me by the shoulder/collarbone area as I was sitting to try and hug me from his standing position. I had to bite back the pain because he was so happy to see me and so sweet to me, I didn't want to let him know that I could feel the pain down to my toes. And the first time I saw the Filmmaker after I walked away was when he brought his daughter to class and as he went to hug me, he tried to compensate for my burns and tried to let me slide into him. But even with that consideration, horrible, horrible pain. It killed me that everyone who hugged me caused me such pain. The one thing I crave is physical interaction and I almost couldn't have that for so long.

The tough thing about making it through is that I'm not through.

Although treatment has ended, I'm still going through it. 

I am on Arimidex, a hormone-suppressing drug, because my cancer is hormone positive and estrogen can make it grow and spread very, very quickly. I'm supposed to be on this for five years. The big side effects are fatigue (big surprise), joint pain and possible mood changes. So far, the joint pain has been minimal. Fatigue I have gotten used to and know how to deal with that. But the biggest problem has been depression. This drug has exacerbated my depression to a degree that I really can't bear it. I tend towards depression as it is and this just doesn't help. And it always leads me to the Filmmaker, because "he" represents so many things I've lost and let go and wish I had back. It's not about him personally, it's about what he meant/means. 

And I don't want to add an antidepressant on to what I'm taking. I just don't want to be depressed. But I'm not sure that discontinuing the drug is a viable option. I don't want my cancer to spread or come back. My lovely friend, http://pinkgoose.wordpress.com/, is dealing with Stage 4 metastatic cancer with such grace and dignity and she has given me so much hope and advice along the way. But I don't want to be there with her. I don't want my friends to have to deal with all of this again, possibly even worse. I want to be healthy. I want to be healed. And this drug is essential for that. However, what kind of life is it if I'm depressed and cannot live the life I want to live.

But I made it through this far, I guess I can make it through whatever comes next.

I've made it through pain, fatigue, depression, suicidal thoughts, death of my father, ending this relationship, sorrow, heartbreak, and loss like I have never felt or could comprehend. 

And I'm here.

But I am not sure where exactly here is. 

I do know that I'll make it through whatever is coming. I'll make it through this drug and its effects and make the decisions I need to make to regain my life. I'll make it through figuring out where to go creatively and professionally, even though right now I can't see it. I'll make it through eventually letting go of my feelings for the Filmmaker and maybe finding someone and losing someone again. 

I know I'll get to the other side of anything because I'm already here.

But here is kind of lonely. Going through treatment, everyone leaps to take care of you, give you comfort, sit with you, bring you food, whatever you need.

After treatment, *crickets* *crickets* *crickets*.

No one understands that you're still dealing, you're still hurting, you're still processing. For months, maybe. I have friends who have been still dealing for years. But without "active" treatment, everyone figures you're fine. And it's not their fault. They don't know. And everyone's always kind and gentle and wonderful when I see them. 

But there are a lot of empty days and empty nights as I try to figure out where "here" is and what it means. And as I try to process what I've gone through and what I'm going through.

But I'll make it through that, too. Because what choice is there? We go on. We make it through. 

Because we have to. To choose life, we have to make it through.

So here I am, through. 

Now, to figure out what all that means...

The other side

One year ago today, I was diagnosed with Invasive Ductal Carcinoma.

I still have the piece of paper I wrote those words down on because I couldn’t believe it was true.

And I’ve written and written and written about everything that’s changed in this past year. And about my fears. And my hopes. And my dreams.

I’ve written about my friends and the Filmmaker and the hope and the loss and the everything of everything.

I sat here and cried until I couldn’t anymore last night. For all of this. For all the loss.

And I got up this morning and I went and I taught.

Real life.

Trying to get back to real life.

A year ago, I didn’t know how I was going to get through it. I didn’t know where I would be a year later.

And here I am.

On the other side… sort of.

There’s still a long way to go to heal, to recover, to rebuild. Just because the treatment is over doesn’t mean I’m suddenly healthy and ready to take on the world. That’s the hard part. No one really understands unless they’ve been through it. Your body goes through a year of hell, it doesn’t necessarily bounce right back.

And my heart needs to heal. Not just from leaving the Filmmaker, but from… I don’t know what from. But it feels beaten and battered and just wants to rest. Not think about anyone but me for a while.

And I still miss the Filmmaker every day. But I’m choosing to appreciate and hold the memories of him close and relish their beauty. And it’s more like a wistful wanting, not the painful, difficult, heart-rending wanting. And I’m glad he’s still in my life, as distant and far away as he is.

But I need to heal in every way. Focus on me. Focus on where I’m going.

Because suddenly, I’m not sure where to go next. It is difficult to move on after focusing for a year on what comes next. There is really no next now. I’m on a new medication that suppresses my estrogen since my cancer is estrogen-positive and we don’t want any of that crap running around, breeding other little cancer spawn.

But it’s been a horrible week of crippling side effects – the deepest, darkest depression I’ve had in years, moments of suicidal thoughts because it just didn’t seem worth trying to get through this, epic fatigue and just the lack of will to do anything at all. I have barely eaten because I just don’t want to. And all I can think is if this is what being on this drug for the next five years is going to be like, I may just say, fuck it, and take my chances because I can’t live like this. Yesterday and today were better, though, so I’m hoping my body is adjusting and that this will just be one more bad week in the midst of one really horrible year.

So the other side…

That’s a big empty space, the other side. The good thing is that all the stuff I love about my life is still here on the other side. My teaching job, my friends, my artwork, my writing, all of that. I don’t need to figure out my whole life, just need to figure out where to put my feet. There is potential, there is hope, there is… the other side.

One foot in front of the other…

To the other side.

I’ll let you know what it looks like from there.

Who are you?

You sat across from me last night and all I could think was - and who are you?

Hard to believe we were together for 16 years and now we're total strangers again. I know we've been apart for a long time - my choice and I really wouldn't change it, even now.

But I looked at you when you walked in and I thought, who are you? And who am I? And what happened to those two people who fell in love all those years ago? Where did they go?

And if we met today, being the people we are now, would we have fallen in love? How did we get here?

I looked at you and I saw that you haven't changed in the past - god, has it really been? - more than seven years. I don't think that's who you were when we met. That angry, bitter, negative person. Did I do that to you? Turn you into that?

And it made me sad that all those years mean nothing now. That we can only sit across the table from each other, being uncomfortable, knowing there was a history there but not knowing what that means now.

I wish sometimes that I could have let you be a part of my life. To not lose all those years together because there were good things in there, under all the bad. To hang on to something, some vestige of a relationship. To not lose all of that time.

I wish I could invite you back into my life now. But listening to you last night, I know that's not possible because, well, you're the same person you were when I left. And I can't invite that person back into my life. I just can't. Even if I kept you on the edge of things, I don't think you would stay there. And the old habits would come crashing back. And I can't do that again.

But I wondered who you are now. How you have changed, if you have changed. Did you wonder that as you sat across the table from me? Did you recognize me? Or did you wonder the same thing - who are you?

And our history laid on the table between us, just staring at us. Our friends were kind enough to ignore that history and just treat us as individuals, not like the couple we were. I appreciated that. I don't know if you did. 

I wish I could be a bigger person and say, hey, let's have dinner, grab coffee, whatever, and just catch up. But the things you said last night made me know that that is never going to happen. Because ironically, I know exactly who you are. 

And, more importantly, I know who I am. 

Of course

Of course I can't get over you.

You were, in so many ways, the first true love of my life.

At least this version of my life.

I waited almost seven years for someone like you. 

And you arrived just when I needed you the most... and the least.

When we began, I didn't need you. I didn't need anyone to make my life complete. And maybe that's why you came in when you did.

And then I needed you more than I ever thought I would. And you were there. Quiet. Effortless. Just there.

And you showed me that to love someone didn't have to hurt, didn't have to be difficult. That you could talk to each other without hurting each other. That things could be let go and never brought up again. That you could just be with each other and that that could be enough.

And it was enough. Even when I said I needed more, it was almost enough.

Almost.

And I think for a moment, you loved, too, as much as you didn't want to. And it was everything I ever wanted and never knew you could have.

And a year ago, you gave me a perfect Valentine's Day because we didn't treat it like it was. It was quiet and easy and simple. Just us. Just being us. Just enjoying each other. Just that. Just simple. The best Valentine's Day ever.

And I have never been with someone like you. So of course I can't figure out how to leave you behind. Because you hit me harder than maybe you've hit anyone before, simply because I've never had someone like you. You showed me such passion that you left me breathless. 

Maybe there are a million of you out there and I will find someone else who is just as easy and just as simple and just as perfect. And you will recede into that space of fond memories and comfort.

But for now...

I just simply can't seem to let you go.  I just simply wish we could go back and try it again, pick up and start over. And when I saw you last week and we sat and talked like we always talk, it made me just want to hold you and kiss you and tell you how wrong I was to walk away. Because I want you, I miss you, I wish you were here.

You are also the first one who has stayed around. I'm so used to wallowing in the pain and not understanding why someone has walked away from me that now I don't know what to do with the fact that you're still here, in my life.

And I'm glad you're here and I know it'll get back to being simple and easy with you. It already is in so many ways.

It's just hard to let you go at the end of the night. Because I really didn't want to let you go in the first place. Maybe I was wrong. But I don't think so. I let you go before you broke my heart in pieces, because I think that's where it would have gone.

And I hope you don't read this blog anymore because... well, because maybe you don't need to know this.

But on this day of love and hearts,  I just thought you should know.

You were a true love of my life. And I'm still here. And if you wanted to...

And I hope you find what your heart desires. I want you to be happy. You deserve to be loved in the most spectacular way. Because you loved me in the most spectacular way, even if you didn't mean to. And I still love you and probably always will.