I contemplated this question in regard to my physical stature. I responded with rhetoric remarking on my tangible “set back.” I commented that a surgery has been scheduled for 2/24/22 but “how my body looks now doesn’t prohibit my sexual identity.”
And then I dug deeper. How do I feel about intimacy since my remission? Since my diagnosis? Have I been able to feel true intimacy since being diagnosed? Has THIS version of myself allowed for a bona fide connection with another person? I liken my spick and span self as that of a baby bird. All frail, new, uneducated, weak and wobbly but learning fast.
They say cancer changes you. Let me divulgggge. Not only does cancer modify how you view your palpable self, allow you to appreciate your ability to continue functioning within the unceasing gears of life, cultivate your resiliency to shield your children from your disheartenment but it creates a bond within you and yourself.
Cancer is a solitary experience. The only person who truly understands the strife is you. It’s good and bad. Because although it strengthens the connection between you and yourself, it also builds a wall between you and the rest of the cognitive respective.
So, yeah, intimacy… what does “intimacy” mean? It’s inconceivable to feel intimate with an outsider when you’re unsure of who you are.
Every year a tree experiences brand new buds on its branches. In the spring the buds develop, in the summer they grow, in the fall they age and in the winter they die. And then the cycle repeats. Humans have conditioned themselves to believe that we are unlike nature. That things “should” stay the same. That we should remain stagnant within our lives, within our journey. But they be wrong. The only thing that we can rely on consistently is change.
My life, my surroundings, are mine. Before I was diagnosed with cancer, before my relationship imploded, was my life mine? I mean, I was here the entire time but who was I living for?
Are you going to date Danielle? Should I? Why? What is the point? Almost all individuals who are in a “relationship” speak of some sort of fault. Ohhhhh sureeeee he falls asleep next to me every night while he loudly snores and leaves little nose hairs in the sink after he shaves but he ALSO hates when I buy too many Christmas decorations and refuses to go to the flea market on Sundays. No fucking thank you. Take your nose hair clippings, leave my snowflake collection alone and boy oh boy are you missing out on some top notch characters at the outdoor festival of fleas.
Recently, whilst turning a corner a smidgeronie too fast, I hit a curb and a telephone pole simultaneously. I wasn’t injured but my vehicle sure was. I was mad. I was sad. Whyyyyyy did I dooooo thatttttt. Damn ittttttt. Pay attention. I wasn’t paying attention. I was rushing. I was running. I was thinking of other things. I was not present. And these were all things that I needed to tell the truth about, to myself. Honesty, within my mind. Admit your mistakes. I made a fucking mistake. Sucks. Sucks big time, hard, hot, monkey nuts. But, c’est bon. Admit, mull, move on.
I called my insurance company, had my car towed to the auto body and trekked my way to the rental facility. They didn’t have a vehicle comparable to my suv and since I require a vehicle large enough to transport my fur friends comfortably, they sent me to another facility. Tired, sad, feeling all around shitastic I arrived at the second rental facility. After some finagling I finally got my fat ass into a comparable car. Adjusted my seat, paired my phone, fixed my mirrors and took off. I looked to see how much gas I had and realized all of the settings were in espaniol. Touché universe, touché and tweet tweet mother fucker.
