One hundred days since I started writing.
How much has changed in one hundred days?
One hundred days ago,
I was working in a job that made me miserable,
I was in a relationship that wasn’t making me happy and I didn’t know what to do about it,
I was relatively healthy –
or at least I didn’t know how sick I was.
Now I am in a new job,
and I am struggling but I leave each day happy.
I left that relationship and discovered my propensity for cruelty
and my complete lack of empathy.
I started chemotherapy and had an ovary removed
and I have come to terms with the fact
that nothing will go back to how it was
and that’s okay.
One hundred days ago,
I decided to stop screaming into the void
and start whispering into a crowded room.
I learned to be my own summer.
I can tell that my eyes are losing their sparkle –
a once glittering ocean turned into
the dull North Sea off the coast of Bridlington.
The things I used to enjoy no longer interest me,
and I seem to be spending more and more time sat in bed
staring out the window and watching the world tick by
I worry that people are getting tired of me,
and I am so scared of disappointing them
that I don’t even try anymore
because I would rather miss out than be wrong.
I try to contain my sadness
and keep the misery nice and tight and hidden
because who wants to live with the constant threat of rain?
Instead, I use myself as a lightning rod,
but even then I worry that people will see the cuts and scars
and pity me, or think I am attention-seeking.
But what is self-harm except a cry for help?
A way to let people who pay attention know that
I AM NOT OKAY
without actually having to say the words.
I wish I was a little bit braver
and I wish I cared a little less about what other people think,
so I could escape this self-imposed isolation
and join the people I watch outside in the real world.
All it would take is a few small steps around the glass
and I might start to feel alive again
before I am forced back into the cage by my own health.
I know it would be easy once I get out there,
and yet I stay in my comfortable loneliness
knowing it ultimately helps nothing.
I will try take an extra step each day until I make it out there.
I hope my courage keeps up.
– for those doing their best to get me out there
For the longest time,
I was incapable of anger.
I would rather be sad
because sadness was comfortable,
sadness could be controlled,
sadness did not hurt anyone else.
Having said that,
after I was diagnosed
I let the anger embrace me,
taking hold of my heart
and tendrils seeping into my veins.
I decided to hate the world
for hurting me
over and over.
I was at war
with things I couldn’t control
and those I once cared about became collateral damage.
I was oblivious to what I was doing,
my red-tinted glasses
focused solely on
my own selfish intentions.
There was a countdown
but now I am too tired
– an apology for those I hurt