*Update: June 2016 - When I wrote this post originally in 2010, I was mourning the deaths of my cousin and a woman who was like a grandmother to me. I was angry about being diagnosed with breast cancer and being forced to endure 2+ years of treatment to get my life back. Most days I handled it all in stride but this particular day I was just mad as hell. It happens. Looking back, it happened a lot more often than I shared. My anger (then and now) sometimes embarrasses me. I feel like I should be better than that and capable of quickly rising above it. I know that isn't logical or fair though. Anger is just an emotion. I have plenty in my arsenal. It is no worse than the others. And I'm entitled to feel how I do. This day I was just angry.
The emotional rollercoaster simply does not stop.
No matter how hard or how often I try to will it away, pray it away, wish it away… these strong emotions continue to rush over me and overtake me.
I am angry. Still.
And I’m disappointed in myself for feeling this way. But honestly, I am so very angry today. I just spent a few moments on a website for young survivors of breast cancer and found myself stuck on the survivor stories. I was considering submitting my story for the website but then, I just got stuck. I didn’t even read any of the entries. I just kept scrolling through all the names and reading the introductory blurbs… my name is… I was only… I was a newlywed… I was a new mom… the doctor told me it was just a cyst… the doctor told me I was too young for breast cancer... and on, and on.
The roll call of names really got to me. I couldn’t tell by the names what race or ethnicity the women were. I had no idea whether they were straight or lesbian, married or single, mothers or not… just women. Young women like myself who had their entire world shaken upside down and changed forever. Women who were diagnosed late stage like me – stage 3 or stage 4. Women who were diagnosed early – stages 0 – 2. Only two things in common, that they are women and that they were young (under 40) when diagnosed.
When I am walking down the street, I watch the people that I pass by and I play guessing games with myself trying to figure out their story. Where are they going? What are they planning to do after work? Do they have a family? Etc. Rarely do I look at another young woman and guess that she may be dealing with breast cancer. But of course, it is possible. I am a witness to that.
I am angry. Still.
And I’m disappointed in myself for feeling this way. But honestly, I am so very angry today. I just spent a few moments on a website for young survivors of breast cancer and found myself stuck on the survivor stories. I was considering submitting my story for the website but then, I just got stuck. I didn’t even read any of the entries. I just kept scrolling through all the names and reading the introductory blurbs… my name is… I was only… I was a newlywed… I was a new mom… the doctor told me it was just a cyst… the doctor told me I was too young for breast cancer... and on, and on.
The roll call of names really got to me. I couldn’t tell by the names what race or ethnicity the women were. I had no idea whether they were straight or lesbian, married or single, mothers or not… just women. Young women like myself who had their entire world shaken upside down and changed forever. Women who were diagnosed late stage like me – stage 3 or stage 4. Women who were diagnosed early – stages 0 – 2. Only two things in common, that they are women and that they were young (under 40) when diagnosed.
When I am walking down the street, I watch the people that I pass by and I play guessing games with myself trying to figure out their story. Where are they going? What are they planning to do after work? Do they have a family? Etc. Rarely do I look at another young woman and guess that she may be dealing with breast cancer. But of course, it is possible. I am a witness to that.
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I’ve been reading about a theory that says that people who don’t express or release their emotional baggage are more likely to develop cancer. http://www.itmonline.org/arts/cancemo.htm I’ve also been reading about the ways that stress can contribute to breast cancer – primarily by weakening your immune system which limits the body’s ability to fight and/or kill cancer cells when they start to form. And the third reading that I’ve done links toxins in our environment (food, cosmetics, plastics, etc.) to increasing the estrogen in our bodies which can lead to many types of breast cancer. (Many kinds of breast cancer are estrogen driven – like mine)
It is enough to make you want to scream.
I live in a world that has tried to diminish me in every way since I was born because I am a black woman. I live in a world that has taught me to be seen more often than I am heard – primarily because I am a black woman. I live in a world where my sexuality has been twisted and contorted to suit other people’s fantasies and illusions, again primarily because I am a black woman. I keep saying black woman together – but really it should be separate. Because I am black – I suffer from the prejudices of many people all the time. Because I am a woman – I suffer from people’s ideas and fantasies of who I am, what I am capable of and where I should go with my life.
Learning to adapt yourself to handle these ridiculous burdens that other people place on your doorstep is stressful. But also knowing that you cannot afford to blow up, lose your cool or otherwise be undignified in your response and handling of said stress causes you to suppress a lot of your emotions. So I’m stressed just because. And I suppress my emotions as a defense mechanism to survive this mad world. On top of all that, the food I eat, the beverages I drink, the cosmetics I put on my skin to make myself more attractive – and less likely to receive negative feedback from the world – could also be serving to ultimately kill me?
Seriously? This is just too much. So, today I am angry. And right now… I’m releasing this anger into the world for it to deal with it today. I simply have no more room inside of me to keep stuffing this anger down.
I can’t do it.
