It’s October first. I hate that October, my favorite month, is breast cancer awareness month. Couldn't any other month have been chosen? Way to ruin a good time.
Anyway, here we are. October. I either get so angry and triggered I hide away, or I use the space and time society has allotted for breast cancer awareness to share my voice.
I choose to simultaneously hate that October is breast cancer awareness month and be triggered by all the pink, while also knowing it might be the only soapbox and spotlight I am given.
So here goes.
Please do me the kindness of reminding yourself that I am a real person who went through this very real thing. Breast cancer is not this cute pink image wrapped up in bows. It is a port taking up space in your chest. It is poison being pumped into your body. It is laying in bed after chemo, curled in the fetal position, sweating through your clothes and throwing up, with barely the energy to lift your head to make the bowl. It is stares at your bald head. It is scalpels cutting out tumor and breast tissue. It is drain tubes. Scars. Disfigurement. It is scream crying when no one is around until your voice gives out.
I recently had someone tell me my hair looked great, and then ask how thankful I must be to have all of this behind me.
God damn it. Triggered. My breath caught in my chest and my throat closed.
I smiled and said thank you, yes, I am. What I really wanted to do was fucking scream.
I keep waiting for enough time to pass...to feel like the chapter is closed...to feel like this is all behind me. But it's not. I'm beginning to understand that things don't work that way. I carry the weight of this experience with me daily, like a heavy stone placed upon my chest and intricately stitched into the space where my port used to be. Mine to keep forever. Time might pass, and I might grow stronger so that the stone feels less heavy, but it'll be there.
Always.

