We got snow yesterday. I thought it was supposed to snow on Sunday but I guess I was wrong. It wasn’t a lot; maybe around two inches or so. Nothing major, but just enough to make driving interesting. I found that out this morning.
It’s been two years since I started this journey, dealing with my breasts and the chance that they may try and kill me. It’s a little hard to believe.
In some ways, I’m okay. I’m used to the tamoxifen. I can deal with the side effects. Going to see the doctor doesn’t bother me anymore. I’m used to being inside a hospital. Needles still bug me, but I can manage.
In other ways, I’m not okay.
There are days when I wonder what may happen next. The question, “Will I be all right?” runs through my head constantly. I worry about my body and whether or not it’s trying to kill me. Small aches and pains become the focus of worry. Anxiety is a constant and unwelcome companion.
I need a vacation from my own thoughts. It doesn’t seem that I’ll get one. The low level worry is slowly driving me mad. There are days I fear that I might crack under the strain and start screaming.
Maybe that wouldn’t be such a terrible thing. It couldn’t hurt.
Even worse, I’ve slipped into my old coping mechanisms. I’d rather spend my time listening to podcasts and mindlessly clicking on GPX+. I don’t want to do anything that requires thinking. Just mindless repetition. It’s the only thing that calms me.
Or at the very least, it drowns out the voices in my head.