Deep in the Shell of Cancer Depression
Plus: some very good news to share and a photo of Huda from 'Love Island' but bald.
TW: mental health shit, body shame, and self-image stuff.
I’ve been in a shell the last two weeks. I’ve cocooned myself from as much as possible, but I’m finally emerging, somewhat disoriented and emotionally hungover.
At the beginning of chemo, I was consumed with the busy-ness of preparing for treatment. There’s nothing better for avoidance than shopping for a bunch of shit you have the excuse of actually needing. Everything was getting added to cart (here’s my list).
Then came the adrenaline. I was buzzing with cancer-fighting energy. My blood was deficient of white blood cells but it was pumping that Katy Perry “Roar” spirit, honey! I’d sit in the infusion chair for hours being BRAVE and STRONG and a BADASS. All it took was for my tit to betray me to earn that status. Everyone was hearing me rrrrRROOOOAAAARRRR with positivity. I was on my phone constantly, responding to every single message sent my way, which often took hours. My hands would cramp up, my shoulders would hunch, and with my shiny bald head and insomnia-induced under-eye circles I was morphing into posi vibe Nosferatu.
I have wanted to be available; to share and be there for others, and be dumb and silly while wading through all of this. Friends, family, and even strangers on the internet have applauded how well I’m navigating cancer. They expound on my good attitude in the face of such a harsh and cruel reality. I was doing the best job at cancer, because of course I was. I would never allow anything different for myself. I have to be so good at it. I have to do it exactly right. If people are going to call me “inspiring,” I should live up to that.
Then I hit a wall. I hit it hard. I definitely have had bad days, but this was different. Darker. Depression was now roaring louder than America’s least favorite astronaut. It’s not the first time in my life I’ve gone depresh mode, but I didn’t have a disease trying to send me to the eternal skyzone during any of those times.
About two weeks ago, I fell into one of my dark holes (not the one being tormented by the poops), though it was bubbling long before. Even fantastic news (more on this below) and my coming birthday, which I always celebrate in big, dumb-fun fashion, didn’t spark my excitement.
I became despondent, struggling to focus or speak clearly. I was drained; by cancer, by people, by the world continuing on a trajectory of cruel inhumanity, by fears for my future, by disappointment, grief and disillusion. And so I went into my shell.
Like many, depression and anxiety tends to make me shut down from as much as logistically possible. I don’t understand why everything has been so hard, even if I trust that the universe is leading me somewhere. It makes my mind wander into scary places. So essentially…
So I did what I usually do: I went to the shell. I’m a crab in a crushed up Pepsi can that’s washed up to shore, staying the fuck away from as much as possible.
A counselor told me that this is common. The high’s are high and low’s are in hell. You start off strong but you get tired and frustrated. The physical effects are awful and I’ve done all I can to manage through them. The emotional and mental effects reared in heavy and I wasn’t as prepared. The real positivity ran out, then the performance of positivity wore so thin I had to bow out of the theater completely.
Being available to others became a burden, and despite a lot of good intentions from many who care, I had a few instances where I was disregarded. My needs and feelings were not considered, and I felt the innate pressure to manage the needs, feelings and sometimes thoughtless behavior of others in response to my cancer. The additional work of making them feel better after they apologized profusely made me want to not saying anything at all.
My phone became both the ball and chain I’m dragging around and the technology that saves me when my insomnia is raging and the only thing that can soothe me is watching Larsa Pippen call Lisa Hochstein a “fake bitch” at a 49-year-old’s meat-themed birthday party on Real Housewives of Miami at 3 a.m.
On top of so much else going on in my life, there’s also the tragedies and injustices in the world and within my community weighing on my soul. Protesting against ICE raids and the fasc fuck in charge and supporting Palestinian freedom efforts, and a banger season of Love Island USA has helped focus my attention elsewhere, away from myself.
There’s a pile of texts, DMs and voicenotes I haven’t been able to respond to. I’m grateful for every one of them. Well, most. Some I’m not into. But the care and support I’ve been getting really has helped so much. I’m on prayer lists across the country and across religions, even though I lied to priest once about being confirmed while wearing a strapless dress in a church. I was 25!
Knowing I’m loved or thought of at all, let alone by so many people, some I’ve never even met, has been overwhelming in the best way. Don’t stop your check-in’s. Just maybe, I dunno, ask a trusted friend if something you’re about to send might be uncool. Someone translate this to my mom and tell her to not tell me I “need to do something about my belly.”
It wasn’t just cancer and managing people that brought this on. Different factors played a part, like being quoted $235k we most certainly do not have for the fertility treatment I need to have a baby and my dream career seemingly being dead because both media and Hollywood are in a historically bad downturn with seemingly no hope of bouncing back, to name a couple.
I’ve never missed smoking cigarettes more. God, I would kill for one long drag of a Marlboro Light. The other day I went to get dumplings in Chinatown with my sister and a man on a break was smoking outside the restaurant. I paused to inhale a little bit of ciggy air.
I’ve always struggled with vocalizing my anger or hurt, but made strides in therapy and with getting older. My coping mechanism from a young age is to be pleasant, happy and easygoing. It was, and still is, a survival tool for me when around my family. The combative personalities ricochet off each other like a jet-powered pinball machine. For extra context, I’m the lone Cancer among predominately Virgos and Libras. You wouldn’t survive in the asylum that raised me. I love my family so much, but there’s also a lot about our dynamic that I’m trying to break for my own wellbeing, especially the role I took on to avoid feeling bad about myself.
Cancer has exacerbated these issues that I’ve long been trying to work through. In my desire to have a stress-free cancer experience, I’ve ended up falling back into the people pleasing that ends up making me feel disregarded, stupid, and like a doormat. That has, in many cases, led me to explode. When I hit that point, it scares even me.
Cancer or not, I need to focus again on finding a better way; to re-establish a healthy practice of communicating my hurt. For a while I got really good at picking and choosing my battles and talking through things, but lately I’ve been waving the white flag without even trying. I need to not immediately give up because ultimately all it means is giving up on myself.
Today was my final chemo. Six rounds done. I’ll begin the process of recovery, hopefully stop destroying Black Angus bathrooms, and next month I’ll be having surgery. Here’s the good news I mentioned up top: The chemo did its job. My latest scans came back clear, with just a couple concerns that’ll be addressed with radiation. Look at this before and after:
The process isn’t over yet. I’m not cured. And if I am, I know it can come back. I’m choosing an aggressive care plan to improve my odds of full remission. But I’m incredibly fortunate. My body endured the worst thing it’s ever been through and performed a miracle. I got to ring the bell in front of my mom, sisters, Andrew, and the amazing nurse team that was there throughout. I weeped as I thanked the care team for all that they’ve done for me. Nurses deserve the world.
Afterward, we celebrated at Houston’s in Pasadena. For the first time in all this, I was honest with my family. I told them everything I was struggling with. They listened and cried, and seemed to finally understand the root of my behavior that has probably annoyed the shit out of them, and how they may have contributed to me feeling that there was no other way. We thanked each other and promised to keep being there for each other. I felt he heaviness I’ve been carrying ease off my shoulders, and enjoyed a delicious plate of barbecue ribs.
Next week, I turn 41, which is not an exciting number but birthdays are the kind of milestone that have you reflect and consider what you want in your life to change. I’ll be starting therapy again soon. I know it’s okay to take time to yourself, but the way I’ve been going about it isn’t doing me any good.
It’s my hope in writing all this that I can rid another cancerous tumor trying to eat me up inside, and take the steps to move within this next period of my life in a way that keeps me out of the dark. I’ve peeped my head out of the Pepsi can shell and can feel the sun begin to shine again.
“ I got to ring the bell in front of my mom, sisters, Andrew, and the amazing nurse team that was there throughout.” 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭
I love you!!